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TKe  KINGS  TREASURIES 

OF     LITER-ATURE 


GENERAL  EDITOR 
Sir  at  QUILLER  COUCH 


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NEW  YORK    EPDUTTON  AND   COMPANY 


PR05E 
POETRY 

FRPHTHE  WOK^J  OF 

^  HENRY  NEWBOU 


AUTHOR 


JMDENT  ^  SONS   LTD  •  LONDON  &  TORONTO 


All  rights  reserved 


Sole  Agbnt  for  Scotland 

THE  GRANT  EDUCATIONAL  CO.  LTD. 

GLASGOW 


PR  ^027 


First  Published,  June  1920.    Reprinted,  September  192a 

PRINTED  IN  GREAT  BRITAIN 


CONTENTS 


POETRY 

Poetry  and  Politics 

Song  of  the  Children  in  Paladore 

Marriage  and  Poetry  . 

The  Invisible  Country 

The  Pilgrim's  Vision 

The  Eternal  City 

The  Ballads.  . 


PAGE 

7 
36 
37 
41 

42 

44 
48 


TIME 


Song  from  "  Dream  Market 

History  and  Time 

Time  and  the  Land        . 

Time  and  Music     . 

A  Mediaeval  Funeral    . 

The  Secret  of  Oxford 


55 
56 
58 
59 
61 

65 


LOVE 

The  Oxford  Browning  Society 
Amore  Altiero       . 
True  Thomas  . 


66 
74 
75 


ENGLAND 


William  the  Singer 
Gerusalemme  Irredenta 
Froissart — The  First  Phase 

5 


76 

94 


CONTENTS 

ENGLAND — continued 


PAGE 

Froissart — The  Last  Phase  . 

.        103 

Nothing  New          .          .          .          .         . 

.         106 

The  Church  of  Science 

.        114 

The  Body  of  Patriotism 

.        117 

An  English  Landscape 

.        123 

EDUCATION 

A  Theory  of  School 

.       I2S 

The  Schoolboy  in  Luck 

.       130 

Clifton  Chapel      .... 

.       136 

Commemoration       .... 

.       137 

Art  and  Education 

.       139 

Science  and  Literature 

.       142 

The  Old  English  School 

>             .             .146 

WAR 


Chivalry  of  To-day       . 

•                    I 

.     165 

San  Stefano  . 

• 

.     179 

Craven  .... 

•                     < 

189 

Stonewall  Jackson 

•                     • 

190 

Saving  an  Army     . 

•                     « 

198 

Sacramentum  Supremum 

•                    t 

216 

Nonneboschen  Wood 

• 

217 

St.  George's  Day  . 

•                    1 

223 

The  Spirit  of  Submarine 

War       . 

224 

Q-BOATS 

•                   * 

228 

The  Drifters'  Battle    . 

• 

239 

The  Kraken's  Death  Grapple 

242 

Songs  of  the  Fleet 

• 

244 

War  and  Poetry  . 

• 

249 

The  War  Films 

• 

251 

Unlimited  War 

• 

.     252 

PROSE   &>  POETRY 

FROM   THE    WORKS   OF  O 

HENRY  NEWBOLT 


POETRY    AND    POLITICS 

The  relation  of  Poetry  to  social  life — to  Politics  in 
the  wider  sense  of  the  word — is  not  a  very  profound 
or  difficult  subject:  but  it  is  a  little  profounder,  a 
little  more  difficult  than  it  is  sometimes  thought  to 
be.  We  have  only  to  read  or  listen  to  what  is  being 
daily  said  around  us  to  become  aware  that  the  com- 
mon opinion  divides  poetry  off  from  other  human 
activities — regards  it  as  an  intruder  in  ordinary 
affairs.  In  the  Ship  of  State,  Poetry  must  not  speak 
to  the  man  at  the  wheel,  or  indeed  to  any  member 
of  the  crew  when  engaged  on  any  kind  of  duty:  if 
she  does  speak  she  must  not  be  listened  to  seriously. 
Common  sense  tells  us  that  Poetry  is  idealism,  and 
that  idealism  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  practical.^ 
For  that  you  need  reality,  truth,  knowledge  of  things 
as  they  are  in  themselves:    and  only  Science,  which 

1  "  As  to  the  plaintiff's  verses  that  had  been  quoted,  tlie 
jury  could  not  judge  the  verses  of  poets  from  the  standpoint 
of  business  men  such  as  the  jury  and  himself.  Poets  dealt 
with  these  matters  in  extravagant  strain,  as  was  shown  by 
their  knowledge  of  the  poets. 

"  The  learned  counsel  then  recited  a  poem  by  Swinburne 
and  Shakespeare's  Sonnet  No.  20.  These  poets  were  to  be 
congratulated  that  they  had  not  to  be  cross-examined  by 
Mr.  Campbell." — The  Times,  April  22,   1913. 

7 


8  Poetry   and    Politics 

is  the  antithesis  of  Poetry,  can  give  you  these.  Science 
then  must  be  in  supreme  command,  Science  must 
steer  and  work  the  ship,  while  Poetry,  if  she  is  allowed 
any  active  place  at  all,  must  be  restricted  to  such 
employment  as  decorating  the  saloon  and  playing 
in  the  band. 

Now  it  can  hardly  be  necessary  for  me  to  insist 
on  the  vital  importance  of  this  view.  Its  results  are 
visible  in  every  department  of  our  social  system,  and 
they  are  always  disastrous.  Our  public  life  is  before 
all  things  chaotic  and  quarrelsome — the  crew  are 
busying  themselves  not  so  much  in  working  the  ship 
as  in  disputing  about  every  detail  of  the  voyage, 
and  particularly  about  its  course.  In  Government, 
our  method  is  to  move  b)'  alternate  efforts  in  almost 
opposite  directions: 

You  have,  perchance,  observed  the  inebriate's  track 
At  night  when  he  has  quitted  the  inn-sign : 
He  plays  diversions  on  the  homeward  line. 
Still  that  way  bent,  albeit  his  legs  are  slack.* 

Then  on  questions  of  public  morality  there  is  a 
direct  and  bitter  conflict  always  going  on :  in  matters 
of  religion  the  common  ideal  of  brotherhood  is  for- 
gotten in  the  universal  ardour  for  faction-fighting. 
Yet  the  nation  thus  distracted  is  a  collection  of  men 
and  women  perhaps  as  homogeneous  as  any  in  the 
world,  and  certainly  in  no  way  unusually  deficient 
in  political,  moral,  or  religious  sense.  They  are 
merely  confused,  and  their  confusion  is,  I  believe, 

»  George  Meredith,  The  World's  Advance. 


Poetry   and    Politics  9 

largely  due  to  a  radical  misunderstanding  of  the 
nature  of  Poetry  and  the  part  it  plays  in  human 
hfe. 

To  realise  this  we  must  go  a  little  further  back — • 
we  must  look  into  the  prevalent  view  of  our  know- 
ledge of  the  world  in  which  we  live.  That  view  is  a 
clear  and  positive  one :  it  is  held  by  the  vast  majority 
around  us,  and  I  believe  that  the  following  statement 
of  it  would  be  generally  accepted.  First  then,  bodily 
existence,  material  existence,  is  existence  in  the 
truest  sense  of  the  word,  and  all  true  existence  is 
primarily  material  existence:  as  compared  with 
this  outward  life,  our  inner  life  is  unreal,  and  it  most 
nearly  attains  reaUty  when  it  most  closely  corresponds 
to  outward  existence.  Secondly,  our  only  true  know- 
ledge is  knowledge  of  the  external  world,  and  it  is 
true  because  it  is  knowledge  of  things  as  they  are 
in  themselves,  knowledge  of  real  and  not  imaginary 
things.  It  follows  that  our  knowledge  of  our  bodies 
is  more  intimate  and  certain  than  our  knowledge 
of  our  souls  can  possibly  be. 

This  is  the  belief  of  a  generation  bred  up  on 
Science,  but  it  is  not  one  which  is  warranted  by 
Science.  What  Science  has  to  say  in  the  matter  may 
be  found  very  clearly  stated  in  Huxley's  essay  on 
Descartes.^  "What  then  is  certain?"  he  asks. 
"  Why,  the  fact  that  the  thought,  the  present  con- 
sciousness, exists.  .  .  .  Thus  thought  is  existence. 
More  than  that,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  existence 
is  thought,  all  our  conceptions  of  existence  being 
*  Collected  Essays,  vol.  i.  p.  172. 


10  Poetry   and    Politics 

some  kind  or  other  of  thought."  Having  said  so 
much,  the  recollection  seems  to  break  in  upon  him 
that  he  is  outraging  the  common  belief — the  creed 
which  I  have  set  forth  above.  He  continues,  "Do 
not  for  a  moment  suppose  that  these  are  mere  para- 
doxes or  subtleties.  A  Httle  reflection  upon  the  com- 
monest facts  proves  them  to  be  irrefragable  truths. 
For  example,  I  take  up  a  marble,  and  I  find  it  to 
be  a  red,  round,  hard,  single  body  ...  all  those 
qualities  are  modes  of  our  own  consciousness.  .  .  . 
Whatever  our  marble  may  be  in  itself,  all  that  we 
can  know  of  it  is  under  the  shape  of  a  bundle  of  our 
own  consciousnesses.  Nor  is  our  knowledge  of  any- 
thing we  know  or  feel,  more  or  less  than  a  knowledge 
of  states  of  consciousness." 

He  goes  on  to  deal  with  the  question  of  the  cor- 
respondence between  the  external  world  and  our 
impressions.  "  The  necessary  outcome  of  his  (Des- 
cartes') views  is  what  may  properly  be  called  Ideal- 
ism :  namely,  the  doctrine  that,  whatever  the  universe 
may  be,  aU  we  can  know  of  it  is  the  picture  presented 
to  us  by  consciousness.  This  picture  may  be  a  true 
likeness — though  how  this  can  be  is  inconceivable 
— or  it  may  have  no  more  resemblance  to  its  cause 
than  one  of  Bach's  fugues  has  to  the  person  who  is 
playing  it:  or,  than  a  piece  of  poetry  has  to  the 
mouth  and  Hps  of  a  reciter.  It  is  enough  for  aU  the 
practical  purposes  of  existence  if  we  find  that  our 
trust  in  the  representations  of  consciousness  is 
verified  by  results:  and  that  by  this  help  we  are 
enabled  '  to  walk  surefootedly  in  this  life.'  " 


Poetrv   and   Politics  ii 

Finally  he  has  this  passage  ^  on  body  and  soul  : 
"  Thus  it  is  an  indisputable  truth  that  what  we  call  • 
the  material  world  is  only  known  to  us  under  the 
forms  of  the  ideal  world :  and,  as  Descartes  tells  us, 
our  knowledge  of  the  soul  (taken  as  the  sum  of  the 
states  of  consciousness  of  the  individual)  is  more 
intimate  and  certain  than  our  knowledge  of  the  body." 
In  Huxley's  opinion  then,  the  common  belief  is 
wrong  on  every  point. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  this  essay  without  being 

reminded  that  the  poets  have  said  the  same  thing 

and  said  it  more  m.emorably :  there  is  Coleridge's  Ode : 

O  Lady !   we  receive  but  what  we  give, 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  Nature  live. 

There  is  George  Meredith's  Sonnet,   opening  with 

the  lines: 

Earth  was  not  Earth  before  her  sons  appeared, 
Nor  Beauty  Beauty  ere  young  Love  was  bom. 

And  there  are  many  more. 

But  the  poets  use  a  truth  such  as  this  for  their 
own  purposes,  which  are  not  for  the  moment  ours. 
We  are  not  now  looking  for  beauty  on  the  hillside, 
we  are  climbing  to  reach  a  particular  point  of  view 
and  our  best  way  is  the  plainest  and  straightest.  Let 
us  for  a  short  time  longer  proceed  by  the  direct, 
rough-hewn  steps  of  prose.  We  start  from  the  point 
to  which  Huxley  has  brought  us.  Man,  as  we  know 
him,  is  a  spirit :  and  it  is  only  in  terms  of  spirit  that 
he  is  capable  of  knowing  the  world. 

We  have  already  observed  him  in  the  process  of 
•  Collected  Essays,  vol.  i.  p.  193. 


12  Poetry   and    Politics 

acquiring  knowledge,  we  have  seen  that  this  process 
is  not  a  passive  one:  an  impression  or  sensation  is 
something  which  is  offered  to  us  by  the  external 
world,  but  it  will  pass  us  by  if  we  do  not,  by  an 
activity  of  the  spirit,  seize  it,  and  present  it  to  our 
consciousness. 

The  activity  by  which  this  is  done  is  the  aesthetic 
activity.  When  we  grasp  an  impression,  an  external 
appearance,  and  present  it,  or  express  it  tacitly,  to 
our  consciousness,  we  create  a  perception  or  intuition. 
When  we  express  a  perception  or  intuition  in  an 
external  form,  we  make  a  work  of  art :  if  the  expres- 
sion is  in  the  form  of  words,  the  work  of  art  is  poetry : 
not  necessarily  verse,  but  essential  poetry,  that  is 
creation. 

We  have  also  seen  that  there  is  another  activity 
of  the  human  spirit — the  logical  or  intellectual 
activity.  By  it  man  takes  his  intuitions  and  of  them 
makes  comparisons,  classes,  generalisations,  and 
deductions:  the  expression  of  these  in  words  is 
essential  prose,  that  is.  Science. 

Having  then  these  two  theoretic  activities,  which 
express  themselves  in  Poetry  and  Science,  how  does 
man  use  them?  Does  he  keep  them  distinct?  Ob- 
viously not.  Science  deals  with  what  are  called  facts, 
observed  and  recorded  facts:  but,  as  we  have  seen, 
these  have  in  themselves  the  nature  of  poetry,  they 
are  facts  of  a  world  not  discovered,  but  created,  by 
the  spirit.  Science,  in  short,  is  dependent  for  its 
material  on  a  poetic  activity. 

Is    Poetry    on    its    side    dependent    on    Science? 


Poetry   and   Politics  13 

Practically  it  is.  It  is  true  that  Art  can  dispense  with 
logical  thought — it  does  so  to  a  great  extent  in  the 
case  of  painting,  and  even  Poetry  might  conceivably 
be  limited  to  the  expression  of  pure  perception: 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear. 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright; 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might, 
The  breath  of  the  moist  air  is  light 

Around  its  unexpanded  buds: 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 

The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft,  like  Solitude's. 

This  is  almost  entirely  expressive  of  direct  im- 
pressions, and  it  charms  us:  but  it  would  cease  to 
charm  if  it  were  indefinitely  prolonged  or  constantly 
repeated.  The  Hues  are  not  a  poem,  they  are  only  the 
introductory  stanza  of  a  poem  which  includes  re- 
flections and  comparisons,  as  well  as  simple  intuitions. 
And  this  is  the  case  in  the  greater  number  of  poems : 
Poetry  has  the  power  of  taking  the  finished  products 
of  Reason  for  her  raw  material,  and  fusing  them 
together  with  her  own  intuitions  into  one  substance. 
For  a  single  clear  example  of  this,  Wordsworth's 
httle  poem  on  the  death  of  Lucy  will  suffice : 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears: 
She  seemed  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force. 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees; 
Rolled  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course. 

With  rocks  and  stones  and  trees. 


14  Poetry  and   Politics 

These  last  two  lines  come  from  no  simple  intuition : 
man  is  not  capable  of  a  direct  perception  of  the 
earth's  daily  revolution.  To  human  sense  it  is  the 
Sun  which  moves — which  rises  and  sets  to  make  our 
earthly  years.  But  Science  has  told  us  a  different  tale, 
and  the  tale  of  Science  has  been  so  mastered  by  the 
imagination  as  to  become  of  one  substance  with  our 
intuitions.  Poetry  has  made  thought,  too,  a  subject 
for  the  aesthetic  activity. 

This  then  is,  in  very  brief  outline,  what  I  believe 
to  be  the  true  account  of  the  relations  between 
Poetry  and  Science,  and  if  we  could  now  come 
together  upon  a  scientific  definition  of  Poetry,  we 
should  have  only  two  stages  further  to  go  to  arrive 
at  our  desired  point  of  view.  The  definition  we  seem 
to  have  reached  is  this:  Poetry  is  the  expression  in 
speech,  more  or  less  rhythmical,  of  the  assthetic 
activity  of  the  human  spirit,  the  creative  activity 
by  which  the  world  is  presented  to  our  consciousness. 
But  this  is  not  enough:  it  gives  us  only  Poetry  in 
the  abstract,  and  makes  no  distinction  between 
good  and  bad,  greater  and  lesser  poetry.  The  two 
necessary  further  stages  are  these:  good  poetry  is 
not  merely  the  expression  of  our  intuitions,  it  is  the 
masterly  expression  of  rare,  compl.x  and  difficult 
states  of  consciousness :  and  great  poetry,  the  poetry 
which  has  power  to  stir  man}^  men  and  stir  them 
deeply,  is  the  expression  of  our  consciousness  of  this 
world,  tinged  with  man's  universal  longing  for  a 
world  more  perfect,  nearer  to  the  heart's  desire.  By 
definition,  and  in  a  plain,  prosaic  way,  we  are  all 


Poetry   and   Politics  15 

poets,  all  makers  of  our  own  world:  but  the  great 
poets  re-make  it  for  us;  they  take  this  very  world 
of  time  in  which  we  live,  and  by  an  incantation  they 
rebuild  it  for  us,  so  that  for  an  instant  we  see  it 
under  a  light  that  is  not  the  Hght  of  Time.  This  at 
least  is  what  I  find  they  have  always  done  in  their 
great  moments,  and  what  I  do  not  doubt  they  will 
always  do. 

For,  an  ye  heard  a  music,  like  enow 
They  axe  building  still,  seeing  the  City  is  built 
To  music :   therefore  never  built  at  all. 
And  therefore  built  for  ever. 

Those  who  have  followed  me  so  far  and  come  to 
the  same  standpoint  will  now,  I  believe,  find  it  easy 
enough  to  make  a  survey  of  our  social  system  and 
mark  what  is  and  what  ought  to  be  the  place  of 
Poetry  in  it.  I  will  imagine  that  a  small  company 
at  any  rate  are  still  wth  me,  and  that  we  are  looking 
down  together  upon  the  world  of  our  modem  Ufe — 
looking  not  only  upon  it  but  into  it,  into  the  true 
nature  of  its  activities.  What  do  we  see?  Are  there 
before  us  two  clearly  separated  regions,  in  one  of 
which  the  only  activity  going  on  is  logical  or  scientific, 
while  in  the  other  there  is  only  the  creative  and 
emotional?  Do  we  see  men  divided  as  it  were  into 
two  distinct  nations— Men  of  Thought  and  Men  of 
Feeling — the  one  speaking  the  language  of  Science, 
the  other  that  of  Poetry?  Surely  not.  Do  we  not 
rather  see  a  territory  throughout  the  main  part  of 
which  both  languages  are  in  common  use,  while  on 
the  extreme  opposite  outskirts  of  it  there  are  two 


i6  Poetry   and   Politics 

comparatively  small  areas  within  which  men  are  to 
be  found  speaking  and  working,  on  this  side  in  the 
language  of  pure  Reason,  on  the  other  in  that  of 
pure  Instinct?  We  see  also,  I  think,  if  we  have  the 
full  use  of  our  eyes,  that  though  both  these  exclusive 
little  areas  are  desirable  places,  no  one  could  and  no 
one  does,  with  any  success,  live  entirely  in  either 
of  them.  No  one,  however  artistic,  spends  all  his 
time  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  aesthetic  intuitions, 
untroubled  by  remembrance  or  forethought  or 
comparison.  No  one,  however  strict  and  powerful 
a  thinker,  passes  every  moment  of  his  life  in  the 
pursuit  of  Science  or  under  the  absolute  direction 
of  Reason. 

No.  Art  is  a  place  apart,  and  Science  is  a  place 
apart;  the  place  where  men  live  is  not  in  either  of 
these,  but  in  the  larger  space  between  them,  where 
we  speak  and  understand  two  languages  at  once, 
because  we  are  by  birth  of  a  double  nationality,  and 
inherit,  in  varying  degrees,  the  powers  of  both.  It 
is  true  that  in  our  present  stage  of  civilisation  one 
of  these  nationalities  is  apt  to  encroach  upon  the 
other,  even  to  assume  a  dominant  position.  When 
we  define  man  as  "  a  reasoning  animal,"  we  are  in 
danger  of  forgetting  that  "  animal  "  too  is  part  of 
the  definition:  that  we  are  creatures  of  instinct 
first  and  of  reason  afterwards.  In  our  long  march 
out  of  the  wilderness  we  have  owed  it  to  Reason 
that  we  men,  alone  of  all  living  tribes,  have  come 
through  to  the  conquest  of  the  world.  We  therefore 
continue,  now  that  the  conquest  is  practically  accom- 


Poetry   and   Politics  17 

plished,  to  set  Reason  in  the  place  of  supreme 
authority,  and  we  give  wider  scope  and  more  com- 
pelling powers  to  that  authority  whenever  a  fresh 
emergency  arises.  This  may  be  very  right  and 
necessary,  but  there  are  two  considerations  of  a 
modifying  kind  which  I  think  might  well  be  pressed 
upon  the  partisans  of  pure  Reason. 

The  first  is  that  Government  has  long  been  admitted 
to  exist  only  for  the  happiness  of  the  Governed,  and 
not  for  the  satisfaction  of  the  Governor.  It  would 
seem  to  follow  from  this  that  strictly  scientific 
enactments,  though  perhaps  highly  pleasing  to  their 
inventor,  may  not  be  really  the  most  suitable  to  a 
society  nearly  every  member  of  which  is,  on  one  side 
of  his  nature,  an  alien  to  science,  full  of  illogical  and 
often  passionate  preferences.  In  the  Alsace-Lorraine 
of  our  daily  life,  negotiations  which  are  demonstrated 
to  be  for  our  good  may  not  always  be  for  our  happi- 
ness, and  we  may  come  to  resent  the  dominant 
power  which  says  to  us:  "  You  have  lost  your  double 
nationality;  so  far  as  you  were  born  of  instinct,  of 
art,  of  poetry,  you  are  now  a  disinherited  and  subject 
race." 

The  second  consideration  is  this:  that  for  our 
rulers  to  listen  too  exclusively  to  the  strict  counsel 
of  Reason  would  be  to  fail  in  duty  to  those  who  gave 
them  their  authority.  There  is  much  to  be  said 
against  our  modem  party  system,  but  there  is  one 
strong  point  to  be  urged  in  its  favour,  and  that 
is  that  the  line  of  cleavage  is  not  between  Reason 
and  Instinct,  Science  and  Poetry,  Utilitarianism  and 


l8  Poetry   and   Politics 

Idealism,      It  is  between  two  Ideals,   both  highly 
poetical. 

I  will  not  cease  from  mental  fight, 
Nor  shall  my  sword  sleep  in  my  hand 

Till  we  have  built  Jerusalem, 

In  England's  green  and  pleasant  land. 

That  is  the  vow  which  binds  equally  the  devoted 
of  both  parties:  but  for  the  Conservative,  so  far  as 
he  is  truly  Conservative,  the  Holy  City  was  built 
somewhere  in  the  past  and  comes  down  to  us  only 
to  be  saved  or  restored :  while  for  the  Liberal,  so  far 
as  he  is  truly  Liberal,  its  site  lies  still  ahead  upon  a 
beautiful  but  misty  horizon,  and  the  City  is  the  more 
difficult  to  describe  because  the  like  of  it  has  not 
yet  been  seen  on  earth.  I  must  add  that,  in  addition 
to  the  two  original  and  probably  ultimate  parties, 
there  arise  others  from  time  to  time,  whose  Future 
State  is  a  kind  of  Utopia  and  is  to  be  looked  for 
round  the  next  comer.  It  will  be  built  of  none  but 
soUd  prose  materials,  and  it  might,  we  are  told,  be 
finished  to-morrow  if  only  the  designers  had  sufficient 
legislative  power  at  their  disposal. 

Unhappily,  the  jerry-builders  of  Utopia  are  not 
singular  in  this  last  illusion.  The  belief  in  legislation, 
the  belief  that  our  fellows  had  better  be  sober  than 
Iree,  is  probably  the  greatest  danger  that  civilisation 
has  to  fear  at  the  present  day,  and  the  only  aid  that 
we  can  invoke  against  it  is  that  of  Poetry.  There  are 
but  two  ways  of  deahng  with  men  in  the  mass — 
persuasion  and  compulsion.  Reason,  no  longer  sweet 
Reason,    but    the    relentless    virago    more    properly 


Poetry   and   Politics  19 

named  Logic,  seems  to  have  elected  for  compulsion. 
It  remains  only  for  Poetry  to  keep  to  the  longer 
and  surer  way,  however  our  would-be  legislators 
clamour  for  the  short,  half -laid  road,  so  full  of 
imexpected  pitfalls,  and  so  cruelly  up-hill  for  those 
who  are  to  be  driven  along  it.  This  way  is  clean 
against  human  nature.  We  are  all — Conservatives, 
Liberals,  Sociahsts — we  are  all  revolutionists  now: 
but  the  true  and  lasting  Revolutions  are  achieved 
by  a  change  of  feehng  and  not  of  statute  law.  To 
awaken,  stimulate,  and  change  human  feeling  is  the 
great  function  of  Poetry,  and  the  Poet  is  exerting 
a  hundred  times  more  beneficent  power  when  he  is 
doing  this  than  he  could  ever  exert  in  the  more 
prosaic  office  of  a  legislator. 

The  history  of  our  literature  affords  a  very  striking 
example  of  this.  Joseph  Addison's  poem  The  Cam- 
paign was  written  when  he  was  a  young  and  poor 
man.  It  is  still  remembered  for  two  lines  which 
both  occur  in  the  description  of  a  great  general: 

'Twas  then  great  Marlborough's  mighty  soul  was  proved. 

That,  in  the  shock  of  charging  hosts  unmoved, 

Amidst  confusion,  horror,  and  despair, 

Examined  all  the  dreadful  scenes  of  war: 

In  peaceful  thought  the  field  of  death  surveyed, 

To  fainting  squadrons  sent  the  timely  aid, 

Inspired  repulsed  battalions  to  engage. 

And  taught  the  doubtful  battle  where  to  rage. 

So  when  an  angel  by  divine  command 

With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land 

(Such  as  of  late  o'er  pale  Britannia  past), 

Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast, 

And,  pleased  the  .Almighty's  orders  to  perform, 

Rides  in  the  whirlwind  and  directs  the  storm. 


20  Poetry  and   Politics 

Judged  by  a  modern  standard,  The  Campaign  is 
not  great  or  even  good  poetry,  but  it  had  the  full 
effect    of    poetry    upon    Addison's    contemporaries. 
It  showed  them  England  and  EngHshmen,  Queen, 
Ministers,  and  Generals,  all  in  the  act  of  hfe,  but  with 
their  characters  and  deeds  transfigured  in  a  pseudo- 
heroic  atmosphere.     It  moved  them,  it  transported 
them  from  the  mood  of  criticism  into  the  mood  of 
enthusiasm:   it  showed  the  writer  to  be  gifted  with 
the  power  of  persuasion.    The  Government  reahsed 
this  and  fell  into  the  natural  fallacy  of  prosaic  minds : 
they  secured  his  services  and  then  used  them  for 
quite  other  purposes.    For  twelve  years  he  spent  his 
time  in  lucrative  appointments,  sessions  of  Parlia- 
ment, and  high  Offices  of  State.    In  these  he  made 
only  a  subordinate  figure:    but  in  the  one  interval 
when  he  was  out  of  office  he  achieved  the  triumph 
of  his  life  by  the  production  of  Cato,  and  by  the 
perfect   expression   of   his   own   personahty   in   the 
Spectator,  he  worked  a  lasting  change  in  the  thought 
and  feeling  of  the  nation.    This  is  a  lesson  for  the 
modern  Poet:  if  his  poems  should  achieve  so  much 
success  as  not  only  to  influence  the  public  but  even 
to  attract  the  attention  of  the  Government,  he  will 
none  the  less  resist  all  attempts  to  turn  him  into  a 
Secretary  of  State:    he  will  probably — though  this 
is  less  certain — refuse  even  to  become  a  member  of 
the  House  of  Lords.     He  will  not  forsake  poetry, 
nor  will  he  attempt  to  use  poetry  in  the  service  of 
particular  interests.     The  conflicts  of  poUcy  he  will 
judge,  not  by  pitting  arguments  against  each  other. 


Poetrv   and   Politics  21 

but  bv  measuring  each  against  the  ideal  which  is 
common  to  both  sides.  Those  who  hear  him  will  be 
reminded  not  of  their  differences  but  of  the  under- 
lying sympathetic  aspirations  which  are  not  partisan 
or  temporary,  but  national  and  imperishable.  A 
political  poem  of  this  kind  is  that  famous  sonnet  of 
Wordsworth's,  which  keeps  its  power  to  this  day, 
though  the  particular  occasion  which  called  it  forth 
has  long  been  forgotten: 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  flood 

Of  British  freedom,  which  to  the  open  sea 

Of  the  world's  praise,  from  dark  antiquity 

Hath  flowed  "  with  pomp  of  waters  unwithstood  " — 

Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a  mood 

Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands — 

That  this  most  famous  stream  in  bogs  and  sands 

Should  perish;   and  to  evil  and  to  good 

Be  lost  for  ever.    In  our  halls  is  hung 

Amiourv  of  the  invincible  knights  of  old: 

We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 

That  Shakespeare  spake,  the  faith  and  morals  hold 

Which  Milton  held. — In  everything  we  are  sprung 

Of  Earth's  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  whether  this  poem 
is  more  proudly  conservative  or  more  passionately 
democratic.  But  it  lasts,  because  it  is  not  partisan. 
Unfortunately,  this  is  seldom  the  case  with  political 
polms:  they  do  not  take  their  origin  from  emotion 
recollected  in  tranquillity,  but  only  too  often  from 
just  the  emotion  one  would  not  wish  to  recollect  in 
tranquillity.  Such  was  Coleridge's  Eclogue  of  Fire, 
Famine,  and  Slaughter,  a  poem  repented  by  its 
author  within  a  few  years,  and  now  entirely  obsolete. 
It  is  instructive  to  note  that  Pitt,  who  in  this  frenzy 


22  Poetry   and   Politics 

of  political  hatred  is  consigned  by  Coleridge  to  ever- 
lasting flames,  is  the  same  statesman  for  whose 
"  hallowed  tomb  "  Scott  wrote  an  Ode  of  a  precisely 
opposite  character.  But  even  this  is  less  striking  than 
the  contrast  between  two  sonnets  written  in  our 
own  time  by  two  great  poets  upon  the  same  day — 
the  day  after  the  assassination  of  the  Tsar  Alexander. 
Swinburne,  but  for  stern  compassion  and  deep  awe, 
would  rejoice 

That  one  more  sign  is  given  against  the  crown, 
That  one  more  head  those  dark  red  waters  drown. 
Which  rise  round  thrones  whose  trembling  equipoise 
Is  propped  on  sand  and  bloodshed  and  such  toys 
As  human  hearts  that  shrink  at  human  frown. 

Rossetti  sees  in  the  murdered  man  no  tyrant,  but 
the  emancipator  of  forty  million  serfs,  lamented  by 
his  people: 

These  to-day  aloud 
Demand  of  Heaven  a  father's  blood — sore  bowed 
With  tears  and  thrilled  with  wrath;   who  while  they  grieve 
On  every  guilty  head  would  fain  achieve 
All  torments  by  his  edicts  disallowed. 

These  poems  each  expressed  an  unconsidered  view 
of  a  mere  particular  fact:  they  give  us  no  insight 
into  the  colossal  and  mysterious  tragedy  of  the 
Russian  Autocracy:  they  were  momentary  smd 
they  passed  with  the  passing  of  the  moment.  But 
Rossetti,  at  any  rate,  had  a  power  beyond  this.  His 
sonnet  On  Refusal  of  Aid  between  Nations,  written 
on  some  unremembered  occasion,  can  never  be 
obsolete  while  indignation  and  generosity  remain 
to  us.    It  expresses  a  deep  sense  of  the  di\dne  wrath, 


Poetry   and   Politics  23 

which  comes,  he  says,  not  from  the  calamities  of 
the  time — 

But  because  man  is  parcelled  out  in  men 
To-day:    because  for  any  wrongful  blow- 
No  man  not  stricken  asks,  "  I  would  be  told 
Whv  thou  dost  thus,"  but  his  heart  whispers  then 
"  He  is  he,  I  am  I."    By  this  we  know 
That  our  earth  falls  asunder,  being  old. 

The  view  which  I  have  here  suggested  will  not 
commend  itself  to  the  majority  of  those  engaged  in 
public  life.  The  politician  desires  support,  the  elector 
desires  guidance,  on  the  particular  question  of  the 
day:  they  cannot  wait  for  any  ripening  process. 
Their  charge  against  Poetry  will  be  that  it  is  too 
remote,  that  its  method  of  persuasion  is  not  direct 
enough,  that  it  has  too  little  touch  with  "  practical 
politics."  If  we  could  induce  them  to  come  for  a 
moment  to  our  point  of  view  and  look  down,  as  we 
have  done,  upon  the  common  everyday'  life  of  men, 
half  instinctive  and  half  intellectual,  might  we  not 
say  to  them:  "There  is  the  world  you  have  to 
govern:  on  what  power  are  you  relying  for  per- 
suasion? First,  no  doubt,  on  Reason — but  your 
opponents  will  claim  Reason  too.  And  even  those 
who  come  to  hear  you  will  not  perhaps  be  effectively 
gained  by  pure  cold  logic :  what  you  need  is  to  create 
enthusiasm,  a  fire  that  will  bum  and  spread  after 
you  have  passed  on.  Will  you  set  aside  as  too  remote, 
too  unpractical,  those  deep  and  permanent  emotions 
which  belong  to  the  innermost  activity  of  the  spirit, 
and  which  have  probably  before  now  made  your  own 
imagination  glow?  Then  you  must  attempt  to  kindle 


24  Poetry  and   Politics 

an  emotion  with  the  practical  details  of  the  matter 

in  hand:    you  must  appeal  to  the  self-interest  of 

your  audience  and  their  hatred  of  those  who  baulk  it. 

You,  too,  will  be  remaking  the  world :  half  of  it  will  be 

turned  to  baseness  by  your  imagination,  and  the  other 

half  by  assenting  to  it.    This  also  is  a  kind  of  poetic 

activity:  out  of  human  life  it  builds  the  City  of  Dis." 

Here,  too,  we  have  an  example  worth  remembering. 

This  charge  of  remoteness  has  been  anticipated  by 

a  living  poet.     The  thought  came  to  Mr.  Yeats  in 

his  early  days,  that  he  might  in  time  to  come  be 

reproached  for  not  having  done  more  for  the  cause 

of  Ireland.    It  was  not,  of  course,  moonlighting  that 

might  be  expected  of  him,  nor  even  speeches  in 

favour   of   Home    Rule,    but   good   political   verse, 

denouncing   the   oppressor,    instead   of   unpractical 

poetry   about   that   Lady   Beauty,   whose   presence 

keeps  alive  the  souls  of  nations.    These  are  the  first 

lines  of  his  Apologia: 

Know  that  I  would  accounted  be 
True  brother  of  that  company 
Who  sang  to  sweeten  Ireland's  wrong 
Ballad  and  story,  rann  and  song; 
Nor  be  I  any  less  of  them 
Because  the  red  rose-bordered  hem 
Of  her  whose  history  began 
Before  God  made  the  angelic  clan, 
Trails  all  about  the  written  page. 
For  in  the  world's  first  blossoming  age 
The  light  fall  of  her  flying  feet 
Made  Ireland's  heart  begin  to  beat, 
And  still  the  starry  candles  flare 
To  help  her  light  foot  here  and  there, 
And  still  the  thoughts  of  Ireland  brood 
Upon  her  holy  quietude. 


Poetry   and   Politics  25 

The  poems  here  defended — Mr.  Yeats's  Irish 
poems — are  certainly  very  remote:  I  suppose  none 
ever  touched  more  distantly  or  more  obliquely  a 
question  of  contemporary  political  strife:  none  ever 
appealed  less  to  the  selfish  fears  and  hates  of  men. 
But  I  believe  they  have  done  more  for  Ireland  than 
all  the  threats  and  curses  of  the  last  hundred  years. 
Is  this  what  it  is  to  be  unpractical  ? 

What  else  is  wisdom  ? — what  of  men's  endeavour 
Or  God's  high  grace,  so  lovely  and  so  great? 
To  stand  from  fear  set  free,  to  breathe  and  wait, 
To  hold  a  hand  uplifted  over  hate ; 

And  shall  not  Loveliness  be  loved  for  ever?  * 

What  Poetry  can  do,  then,  is  to  express  not  our 
transitory  wishes,  but  our  eternal  aspirations:  she 
designs,  but  she  cannot  argue  about  details.  That  is 
the  work  of  Reason,  scientific,  dispassionate,  honour- 
ably prosaic.  On  the  other  hand,  the  Poet  must  not 
be  so  remote  as  to  be  no  longer  human.  He,  like  the 
rest  of  us,  is  earth-bom,  and  must  never  deny  his 
double  nature.  If  he  builds  an  ideal  world  for  us,  he 
must  use  the  material  of  our  actual  life:  otherwise 
he  fails,  he  leaves  us  cold,  we  refuse  to  enter  into  his 
alien  and  unattractive  Paradise.  This  explains  the 
astonishing  weakness  of  our  religious  poetry.  We 
might  have  supposed  that  Art  would  have  been  at 
her  most  powerful  when  dealing  with  Religion;  and 
this  expectation  is  amply  borne  out  by  the  history 
of  painting  in  Europe.  But  it  is  hardly  to  be  disputed 
that  in  this  country  at  least  religious  poetic  activity 
has  been  for  the  most  part  a  feeble  and  mechanical 
'  Gilbert  Murray,  BacchcB. 


26  Poetry   and   Politics 

activity,  only  saved  from  total  failure  by  the  aid  of 
music  and  other  extraneous  associations.  I  am 
speaking  now  of  poetic  activity  in  the  wider  sense, 
of  the  creative  imagination,  whether  working  through 
prose  or  verse;  but  only  as  it  deals  with  the  social 
aspect  of  religion,  and  mainly  of  its  operations  in 
verse.  Its  endeavours  have  been  made  with  too  little 
regard  for  the  double  nature  of  man:  it  has  tried 
not  so  much  to  remake  this  world  as  to  make  a  new 
one  out  of  unfamiliar  or  misplaced  materials:  it  has 
invented  a  Paradise  which  is  not  a  transfiguration 
of  this  life,  but  an  irrelevant  sequel  to  it. 

I  will  not  quote  from  the  rehgious  verse  in  which 
this  conception  has  been  so  often  uttered,  because, 
though  it  is  mainly  rubbish,  I  cannot  forget  that 
even  a  bit  of  rubbish  may  be  endeared  to  some  one 
by  an  accidental  memory,  a  fragrance  conveyed  by 
it  though  not  issuing  from  its  own  substance.  But 
I  do  not  need  to  quote :  the  feeling  of  alienation  caused 
by  this  too  unearthly  ideal  is  well  known  to  most  of 
us.  It  was  twice  expressed  by  Mary  Coleridge  in  her 
poems — expressed  with  perfect  reverence  and  perfect 
sincerity.  First,  she  declares ^  that  she  loves  the  Earth 
she  knows  more  than  the  Heaven  of  the  Hymnal: 

Is  that  the  home,  the  Father  kind. 
Is  that  the  country  of  our  birth  ? 

Were  we  created  deaf  and  blind, 
That  we  prefer  the  toilsome  earth  ? 

Its  setting  sun,  its  changing  sea. 
The  day,  the  dark  refreshing  night, 

The  winds  that  wander  wide  and  free, 
Are  dearer  than  the  Land  of  Light. 
1  Poems,  p.  95. 


Poetry   and   Politics  27 

More  than  this:  she  loves  even  the  labour  of  this 
world  better  than  the  restful  monotony  of  that  other :^ 

I  envy  not  the  dead  that  rest, 

The  souls  that  sing  and  fly; 
Not  for  the  sake  of  all  the  Blest, 

Am  I  content  to  die. 

My  being  would  I  gladly  give. 

Rejoicing  to  be  freed; 
But  if  for  ever  I  must  live, 

Then  let  me  live  indeed. 

'\Miat  peace  could  ever  be  to  me 
The  joy  that  strives  with  strife? 

WTiat  blissful  immortality 
So  sweet  as  struggling  life  ? 

Among  the  few  h^Tnns  to  be  excepted  from  this 
condemnation  of  futihty  is  that  anonymous  one — 
not  to  be  found  in  many  of  the  modern  books  for 
church  use — in  which,  among  all  the  old  conven- 
tional splendours  borrowed  from  the  gorgeous  East 
and  to  us  almost  senseless,  among  the  walls  of  precious 
stones  and  turrets  of  carbuncles  and  streets  paved 
with  pure  gold,  we  come  suddenly  upon  a  touch  Hke 
this: 

Thy  gardens  and  thy  gallant  walks 

Continually  are  green; 
There  grow  such  sweet  and  pleasant  flowers 
As  nowhere  else  are  seen. 

It  is  only  a  touch:  but  it  is  convincing  because, 
though  other-worldly,  it  is  still  human:  it  has  still 
sometliing  of  our  own,  something  that  is  a  memor}' 
as  well  as  a  hope.  In  this  it  obviously  resembles  the 
far   greater   poetry   from   which   it   is   derived — the 

'  Poems,  p.  198. 


28  Poetry  and   Politics 

poetry  of  the  ancient  Hebrews.  We  are  told  that  the 
ancient  Hebrews  had  no  thought  of  personal  im- 
mortality, but  they  had  a  passionate  belief  in  an 
eternal  excellency,  and  they  embodied  their  ideal  in 
the  visible  beauty  of  their  own  city. 

The  hill  of  Sion  is  a  fair  place,  and  the  joy  of  the  whole 
earth:  upon  the  north  side  lieth  the  city  of  the  great  King: 
God  is  well  known  in  her  palaces  as  a  sure  refuge. 

Walk  about  Sion  and  go  round  about  her:  and  tell  the 
towers  thereof.  Mark  well  her  bulwarks,  set  up  her  houses: 
that  ye  may  tell  them  that  come  after. 

For  this  God  is  our  God  for  ever  and  ever:  he  shall  be  our 
guide  unto  death. 

This  union  of  the  fervour  of  patriotism  with  the 
fervour  of  moral  aspiration  produced  a  poetry  which 
is  to  all  our  liturgical  poetry  as  a  great  and  sonorous 
bell  is  to  the  vague  whistle  of  the  wind.  It  rings  to 
the  height  of  heaven,  but  it  was  cast  in  the  bowels 
of  earth.  Therefore  it  has  in  all  generations  moved 
men  as  no  other  poetry  has  ever  moved  them. 

There  is  another  reason  for  the  influence  of  the 
Psalms:  they  do  not  attempt  to  do  the  work  of 
prose.  They  do  not  deal  in  history  or  argument :  they 
do  not,  as  our  hymns  often  do,  support  particular 
dogmas,  or  illustrate  the  Calendar  of  a  particular 
Church,  or  justify  the  authority  of  a  particular  hier- 
archy. They  are,  in  short,  remote — remote  from 
practical  religious  politics:  but  that  is  only  to  say 
that  they  have  fed  the  deeper  springs  of  human 
emotion  and  exercised  an  unparalleled  power  in 
moments  of  crisis.  Before  our  society  can  hope  to 
produce  such  poetry  as  this,  we  must  learn  to  clear 


Poetry   and   Politics  29 

our  vision  and  see,  as  we  hardly  see  at  present,  what 
is  the  true  nature  of  the  reHgious  ideal  and  how  it  is 
related  to  our  common  life. 

What's  a  religion  ?    'Tis  a  poet's  dream 
Done  into  deadly  prose  by  earnest  men, 
Stript  of  the  charm,  the  madness,  and  the  gleam 
Of  highest  reason,  by  the  industrious  pen. 

'Tis  Quixote's  chivalry — in  Sancho's  brain 
Turning  to  islands  where  himself  may  rule — 
Knight-errant  wandering  through  too  real  a  Spain, 
Misapprehended  by  the  faithful  fool. 
Scorned  by  the  strong,  derided  by  the  proud, 
Played  with  by  Fashion,  battered  by  the  Crowd.' 

Lastly,  there  is  one  more  problem  of  our  social 
Ufe  which  troubles  us  from  time  to  time,  and  which 
comes  within  the  range  of  our  present  survey:  the 
problem  of  the  relation  of  Poetry,  of  creative  Art, 
to  public  morality.  This,  too,  will  have  a  different 
and,  I  think,  a  less  confusing  appearance  if  we  view 
it  from  the  standpoint  which  I  have  tried  to  indicate. 
It  is  not  so  simple  a  question  as  that  of  the  relation 
of  Poetry  to  Politics  and  Religion,  because  it  is  not 
concerned  only  with  perception  and  reason,  but  with 
a  third  force  in  human  life,  an  activity  which  is  not 
esthetic  or  intellectual. 

The  Senses,  loving  Earth  or  well  or  ill, 
Ravel  yet  more  the  riddle  of  our  lot. 

That  is  to  say,  they  are  not  content  with  theoretic 

existence,  they  take  man  out  of  the  sphere  of  pure 

being  into  that  of  doing,  getting,  becoming:    they 

*  Verse,  by  Bernard  Holland,  191 2,  p.  144. 


$o  Poetry   and   Politics 

make  him  a  moral  as  well  as  an  instinctive  and 
reasoning  animal. 

The  way  in  which  the  problem  presents  itself  is 
this.  So  long  as  a  man  keeps  entirely  to  himself  and 
his  private  circle  the  expression  of  his  own  intuitions 
— that  is,  the  works  of  art  M'hich  he  creates — ^no  one 
could  possibly  claim  to  pass  any  judgment  upon 
them.  But  when  an  artist  exhibits  his  work  to  his 
fellow-citizens,  when  a  poet  multiplies  and  distributes 
his  poems,  it  becomes  a  matter  of  practical  interest 
to  the  community  in  which  he  lives  to  observe  what 
effect,  if  any,  is  produced  by  them.  In  Politics  and 
cases  of  religious  controversy  this  anxiety  does  not 
arise,  because  the  approval  of  at  least  one  party  is 
secured;  but  there  is  no  party  which  does  not  desire 
good  public  morals,  though  there  may  be  disagree- 
ment as  to  the  best  method  of  achieving  the  desired 
result.  The  inquiry  then  is  legitimate,  but  though 
some  make  it  coolly,  others  make  it  with  appre- 
hension, and  often  fall  into  error.  Sometimes,  for 
instance,  they  exclaim  against  a  book  as  "  immoral  " 
because  it  supplies  arguments  against  an  established 
institution,  such  as  the  institution  of  marriage. 

Here  they  forget  that  as  a  community  we  in 
England  have  agreed  to  permit  all  institutions  to 
be  pubhcly  criticised:  a  man  may,  if  he  wishes, 
advocate  the  aboUtion  of  the  Church,  the  Post  Office, 
the  House  of  Lords,  or  any  other  institution.  If  he 
does  this  seriously  and  disinterestedly  in  a  book,  we 
may  regret  the  existence  of  such  opinions  and  dread 
their  propagation,  but  we  have  no  right  to  do  any- 


Poetry   and   Politics  3^ 

thing  but  controvert  them.     If,  however,  the  book 
claims  to  be  a  work  of  art,  we  are  entitled  to  say 
that  it  is  faulty,  because  argument  is  the  business 
of  Science,  of  Reason,  of  Prose  in  the  true  sense,  not 
of  Poetry.     Poetry  does  not  advocate  a  new  world: 
it  instantly  and  of  its  o-.vn  power  creates  a  new  world. 
What  happens  or  is  done  or  thought  or  said  in  that 
world  can  have  no  direct  reference  to  the  affairs  of 
our  everyday  Hfe.    This  is  easily  and  very  generally 
perceived  in  the  case  of  rhythmical  poetry :  the  form 
of  the  verse,  and  perhaps  some  peculiarity  of  diction, 
removes  what  we  hear  to  a  distance  from  the  prose 
world.     But  in  the  common  unrhythmical  fiction, 
where  too  the  subject-matter,  the  raw  material,  is 
drawn  very  directly  from  everyday  experiences  and 
expressed  in  language  approximating  to  the  language 
of  ordinary  hfe,   there,   however  creative,   however 
essentially  poetic  the  work  is,  however  truly  it  makes 
a  new  world  out  of  the  old,  there  is  a  risk  of  a  mistaken 
identification,  of  a  confusion  between  the  two.    And 
the  risk  is  perhaps  greatest  when  the  art  is  most 
moving,  for  that  is  when  it  transfigures  life  most, 
and  yet  changes  it  least:    the  common  mind  then 
easily   perceives   the   similarity   and   overlooks   the 
difference.    Yet  it  is  the  difference  and  not  the  simi- 
larity that  is  the  more  important:    the  fallacy  lies 
in  taking  the  similarity  for  identity.    This  confusion 
is  due  to  that  inveterate  behef  that  Art  is  a  de- 
scription, reproduction,  or  imitation,  of  things  as 
they  are.    When  we  have  freed  ourselves  from  this 
unscientific  delusion,  and  realised  the  true  function 


32  Poetry   and   Politics 

of  Poetry,  those  who  read  will  cease  to  regard  fiction 
as  a  highly  rhetorical  method  of  advocacy,  and  those 
who  write  will  perhaps  remember  too  that  they  cannot 
be  artistic  and  argumentative  at  the  same  time. 

It  is  possible,  then,  for  art  to  be  bad  art :  is  it  not 
possible  for  it  to  be  bad  morals,  to  be  dangerous  to 
the  community?  I  do  not  doubt  that  it  is:  there 
may  be  danger  of  the  worst,  and  when  it  exists  it 
will  be  a  much  more  insidious  danger  than  that 
commonly  apprehended.  Information  does  not 
corrupt,  nor  does  argument:  if  they  did,  Science 
would  be  the  most  dangerous  of  all  influences,  and 
there  have  been  times  and  places  in  which  it  was  so 
considered.  What  corrupts  or  may  corrupt  is  contact 
with  a  corrupt  personahty.  Now  contact  with  a 
personality  is  precisely  what  Art  gives.  The  Poet, 
the  artist,  takes  you  into  his  new  world.  What  you 
see  or  hear  there  may  be  painful  or  pleasant,  but  it 
cannot  in  itself  be  harmful:  it  is  merely  a  kind  of 
spiritual  experience.  But  the  atmosphere  of  that 
world,  the  quahty  of  the  imagination  you  breathe 
there,  the  unseen  but  all-pervading  presence  of  the 
creative  spirit,  that  is  a  vital  matter. 

What  we  should  ask,  then,  when  these  moments 
of  apprehension  come,  is  not,  "  What  does  this  book 
advocate?  What  does  it  attack?  What  painful 
incidents  does  it  narrate:  what  plain  or  uncomfort- 
able words  does  it  use?  "  The  inquiry  should  go 
deeper:  it  should  be,  "What  is  this  writer's  per- 
sonality? Is  it  disinterested  or  selfish,  fine  or  base?  " 
And  to  this  it  would  very  seldom  be  difficult  to  find 


Poetry   and   Politics  33 

the  right  answer  if  the  right  evidence  were  taken. 
That  is  not  to  be  done  by  gathering  isolated  words, 
or  passages,  taking  them  out  of  one  world  and 
bringing  them  back  to  another — they  may  very 
likely  be  quite  out  of  key  here,  as  many  persons  and 
events  in  history  are  out  of  key  with  the  life  of  to-day, 
and  yet  we  do  not  demand  that  they  should  be 
expunged  from  the  record.  No,  it  is  only  by  taking 
the  book  as  a  whole,  and  the  man  behind  the  book, 
by  observing  not  mere  details,  but  the  indwelling 
soul  which  gives  them  life  and  unity,  that  we  can 
estimate  the  possible  moral  effect.  The  danger,  when 
there  is  danger,  comes  not  from  what  is  startling, 
what  is  called  shocking,  but  from  what  is  insidious. 
That  which  shocks,  whether  good  or  evil,  calls  forth 
a  natural  resistance:  that  which  permeates  does 
not,  though  it  may  be  the  most  powerful  influence 
in  a  life  and  the  most  indelible.  I  will  set  down  here 
a  quotation  from  the  literature  of  a  generation  ago. 
I  do  not  know  the  author's  name  or  whether  he  is 
still  alive:  but  in  truth  no  one  man  is  responsible 
for  the  work  in  question,  because  being  a  piece 
written  for  the  theatre,  it  was  in  reality  the  result 
of  a  kind  of  collaboration  between  the  author  and 
his  audience.  I  take  it  as  typical  of  the  world  which 
they  created  by  the  demand  and  supply  of  this  and 
similar  expressions.  In  that  world  the  ideal  man 
addresses  the  ideal  woman  as  follows: 

I  come  as  a  cavalier, 

And  I  think  you'd  take  it  not  amiss 
I  do  as  a  cavalier, 

Who  is  never  loth  to  steal  a  kiss. 


34  Poetry  and   Politics 

And  never  a  cavalier 

Would  be  a  gallant  knight  and  true, 
Who  wouldn't  confer  a  kiss 

Upon  a  girl  who  wished  him  to. 

This  is  an  isolated  fragment?  It  is.  I  have  no 
space  for  more.  But  my  memory  tells  me  that  in  the 
generation  in  which  it  was  written  it  was  popular 
and  representative.  My  memory  also  tells  me  that 
in  the  same  generation  loud  cries  of  denunciation 
were  hurled  against  a  book  called  Tess  of  the  D'Urber- 
villes.  To-day  there  is  a  great  change :  we  know  that 
book.  We  have  forgotten  the  shock  it  gave;  we 
have  not  forgotten  the  pain,  but  it  no  longer  troubles 
us,  because  we  have  learnt  to  share  it.  We  know 
the  spirit  that  in  that  world  cries  for  beauty,  and, 
above  all,  for  moral  beauty.  Is  it  there  or  in  the 
"  gallant  cavaUer  "  atmosphere  that  the  soul  may 
breathe  with  least  danger?  And  if  vulgarity,  base- 
ness of  thought  and  feeling,  is  the  real  enemy,  the 
real  disease  which  softens  and  eats  away  the  tissues 
of  the  mind,  is  it  not  true  that  Science  and  Art  are 
its  two  antidotes,  and  Art,  great  Art,  the  stronger 
of  these? 

Yes,  stronger,  because  while  Science  clarifies 
thought  by  rejecting  Emotion,  Poetry  refines  it  by 
intensifying  Emotion.  When  thought  and  sense  are 
fused  together  by  genius,  all  that  is  really  mean  or 
common  is  imperceptibly  thrown  off:  the  sorrow 
remains  as  noble  sorrow,  the  laughter  as  pure 
laughter.  The  heart  has  learnt  wisdom,  but  has 
kept  innocency. 


Poetry   and   Politics  35 

O  mighty  Mtise,  ... 
Earthbom  of  sufiering,  that  knowest  well 
To  call  thine  own,  and  with  enamouring  spell 
Feedest  the  stolen  powers  of  god-like  youth 
On  dear  imagination's  only  truth, 
Building  with  song  a  temple  of  desire: 
And  with  the  yearning  music  of  thy  quire. 
In  nuptial  sacrament  of  thought  and  sense 
Hallowest  for  toil  the  hours  of  indolence: 
Thou  in  thy  melancholic  beauty  drest 
Subduest  111  to  serve  thy  fair  behest. 
With  tragic  tears,  and  sevenfold  purified 
Silver  of  mirth:    and  with  extremest  pride. 
With  secret  doctrine  and  unfathomed  lore 
Remainest  yet  a  child  for  evermore.* 

Of  Poetry  this  is  certainly  true,  and  none  the  less 
because  the  poet  draws  so  much  of  his  power  from 
sympathy  with  every  activity  of  the  human  spirit. 
For  him,  as  for  the  great  apostles  of  religion,  nothing 
is  to  be  called  common  or  unclean.  Hazlitt  remarked 
of  Shakespeare  that  he  was  "  in  one  sense  the  least 
moral  of  all  writers;  for  morality  (commonly  so 
called)  is  made  up  of  antipathies,  and  his  talent 
consisted  in  sympathy  with  human  nature  in  all  its 
shapes,  degrees,  depressions,  and  elevations." 

Sir  Walter   Raleigh,   after  quoting  this,   adds  a 

word  of  his  own.^    "  This  is  indeed  the  everlasting 

difficulty  of  Shakespeare  criticism,  that  the  critics 

are  so  much  more  moral  than  Shakespeare  himself, 

and  so  much  less  experienced.    He  makes  his  appeal 

to  thought,  and  they  respond  to  the  appeal  by  a 

display  of  delicate  taste.  .  .  .  They  cannot  endure 

to  enter  such  and  such  a  place.  They  turn  away  their 

1  Robert  Bridges,  Recollections  of  Solitude. 

•  Shakespeare  ("  English  Men  of  Letters  "),  p.  165. 


36  Song   of   the   Children 

eyes  from  this  or  that  person.  They  do  not  like  to 
remember  this  or  that  fact.  Their  moraUty  is  made 
up  of  condemnation  and  avoidance  and  protest.  What 
they  shun  in  Ufe  they  shun  also  in  the  drama,  and  so 
shut  their  minds  to  nature  and  to  Shakespeare." 

We  have  given  a  fair  trial,  a  long  trial,  to  the 
system  of  moral  training  which  corresponds  to  this 
system  of  criticism.  We  have  not  refused  to  enter 
such  and  such  a  place  ourselves,  but  we  have  refused 
to  allow  others  to  do  so:  we  have  not  turned  away 
our  eyes  from  this  or  that  person,  but  we  have 
looked  into  their  books  and  then  attempted  to  bum 
or  banish  them.  We  have  inculcated  a  morality  made 
up  of  condemnation  and  avoidance  and  protest, 
without  any  perception  of  the  fact  that  the  spirit 
draws  its  well-being  from  what  it  feeds  on,  not  from 
what  it  rejects,  and  falls  into  sickness  rather  by  the 
weakness  of  its  own  power  of  assimilation  than 
because  of  any  deadliness  in  the  food  supplied  by 
the  common  earth. 


SONG    OF    THE    CHILDREN    IN 
PALADORE^ 

To  Aladore,  to  Aladore, 
Who  goes  the  pilgrim  way  ? 

Who  goes  with  us  to  Aladore 

Before  the  dawn  of  day  ? 

»  Paladore  in  this  story  is  the  earthly  city;    Aladore  its 
ideal  counterpart. 


Marriage   and   Poetry  37 

0  if  we  go  the  pilgrim  way. 

Tell  us,  tell  us  true, 
How  do  they  make  their  pilgrimage 

That  walk  the  way  with  you  ? 

O  you  must  make  your  pilgrimage 

By  noonday  and  by  night, 
By  seven  years  of  the  hard  hard  road 

And  an  hour  of  starry  light. 

O  if  we  go  by  the  hard  hard  road. 

Tell  us,  tell  us  true, 
What  shall  they  find  in  Aladore 

That  walk  the  way  with  you? 

You  shall  find  dreams  in  Aladore, 

All  that  ever  were  known : 
And  you  shall  dream  in  Aladore 

The  dreams  that  were  your  own. 

O  then,  O  then  to  Aladore, 

We'll  go  the  pilgrim  way, 
To  Aladore,  to  Aladore, 

Before  the  dawn  of  day. 


MARRIAGE    AND    POETRY 

Then  with  the  years  so  passing  the  time  came  that 
Aithne  was  a  damsel  grown,  and  many  knights 
sought  her  love  and  many  asked  to  have  her  in 
marriage.  And  it  happened  at  this  time  that  her 
mother,  the  Lady  AiUnn,  was  taken  with  sickness. 


38  Marriage   and   Poetry 

and  though  her  malady  was  but  light  to  the  deeming 
of  such  as  saw  her  and  heard  her  speak  thereof, 
yet  inwardly  she  knew  that  the  end  of  it  was  to  be 
by  death  only. 

So  upon  a  day  she  lay  in  her  chamber  in  the  castle 
of  Kerioc,  and  Aithne  sat  there  beside  her  and  they 
talked  together  of  this  and  of  that.  And  at  the  last 
the  Lady  Ailinn  ceased  from  talking,  and  then  she 
spoke  to  Aithne  again  and  said:  "My  daughter,  I 
would  not  have  you  parted  from  me  by  blindness,  as 
others  are  parted  from  me :  for  they  deem  that  in  the 
Spring  I  shall  be  healed  of  this  my  malady,  whereas 
I  know  inwardly  that  before  the  thorn  is  hoar  I 
must  be  otherwhere.  And  of  that,  beloved,  I  say 
no  more;  for  you  too  shall  one  day  pass  out  by  this 
gate,  and  I  bid  you  to  the  Tryst  after  Death.  But 
as  for  your  earthly  life  I  have  a  counsel  for  you: 
that  you  consider  well  to  whom  you  give  yourself; 
seeing  that  a  woman  should  not  love  but  after  her 
own  kind,  and  for  one  such  as  you  are  this  may  well 
be  a  hard  thing  to  compass.  For  the  half  of  your 
heart  is  with  the  faery,  and  the  half  of  your  days 
you  live  in  a  land  that  is  no  land  of  men.  And  of 
that  land  I  also  have  had  knowledge,  for  I  was 
somewhile  there  in  my  maidenhood:  and  though  I 
came  never  there  again,  yet  have  I  remembered  it 
in  my  dreams,  and  I  know  this,  that  few  men  find 
the  way  thereto.  Yet  will  a  maiden  think,  as  I  also 
thought,  to  take  a  man  for  lord  and  lover  and  to 
bring  him  in  thither;  but  the  magic  of  it  is  not  so, 
for  every  man  must  win  there  by  his  own  desire. 


Marriage   and   Poetry  39 

Choose  then  whom  you  will,  as  of  your  sovranty: 
but  if  it  may  be,  my  daughter,  before  your  choice 
be  uttered,  come  you  up  hither  into  this  that  was 
my  chamber,  wherein  also  you  were  bom,  and 
remember  me,  and  how  that  I  spoke  with  you  of 
that  realm  that  is  your  heritage.  So  shall  your  choice 
be  my  choice,  for  good  fortune  or  for  ill,  and  we  two 
shall  not  be  parted." 

Then  Aithne  when  she  heard  those  words  held 
her  mother  fast  by  the  hand  and  bowed  her  head 
down  upon  the  pillow  beside  her:  and  she  wept 
bitterly,  for  the  heart  of  youth  cannot  bear  to  hear 
speak  of  death  and  departing.  And  it  is  no  marvel, 
seeing  that  the  darkness  is  great  and  the  Tryst  is 
very  far  off.  So  it  was  with  Aithne  at  her  mother's 
departing;  for  in  no  long  time  afterwards  that 
lady's  life  failed  her,  as  in  this  world,  and  she  was 
gone.  But  Sir  Ogier  for  aU  his  grief  was  still  the 
more  minded  to  make  for  his  daughter  some  marriage 
of  goot  counsel:  for  he  held  women  to  be  as  it  were 
ships,  that  may  fetch  and  carry  well  enough,  but  with- 
out a  master  they  are  blown  about  and  go  no  whither. 

Now  came  again  those  knights  of  whom  I  spoke 
before:  and  they  were  by  number  a  hundred  from 
the  first  to  the  last.  And  they  loved  her  all  of  them, 
not  for  her  lands  only,  but  each  with  such  love  as 
he  had:  for  her  beauty  some,  and  some  for  her 
sweet  voice,  for  oftentimes  when  she  spoke  and 
looked  the  blood  would  dance  in  them  that  heard 
her.  And  many  there  were  that  came  from  far 
countries,  whereof  some  sought  her  for  the  praise 


40  Marriage   and    Poetry 

that  went  abroad  of  her,  even  to  the  out  isles,  and 
some  for  the  renown  of  her  father  Sir  Ogier;  for  he 
was  a  great  knight  under  shield,  and  a  hunter  that 
never  knew  weariness,  and  thereby  he  came  quickly 
to  his  end,  for  he  took  the  river  with  a  horse  that 
was  wholly  spent. 

So  Aithne  was  left  alone,  and  her  loneliness  was 
great :  for  always  in  her  castle  of  Kerioc  she  saw  the 
faces  of  them  that  were  otherwhere,  and  at  night 
she  had  no  peace  for  the  crying  of  the  sea-birds. 
And  many  times  she  made  escape  into  her  realm 
of  Aladore:  but  there  also  was  loneliness,  for  she 
had  found  as  yet  no  soul  to  dwell  with  her.  But 
of  the  knights  that  were  her  earthly  servants  she 
took  much  pleasure  and  perplexity:  and  to  one  or 
another  of  them  she  came  near  to  have  yielded  her. 

Yet  when  the  time  came,  at  every  time  she  held 
aback:  for  she  remembered  her  mother  the  Lady 
Ailinn  and  the  promise  that  she  made  to  her  at  her 
departing,  and  always  when  she  thought  of  her 
words  she  saw  that  they  were  true.  And  therewith 
she  remembered  a  saying  of  her  father,  and  she  saw 
that  this  also  was  true,  as  for  the  most  part:  for 
he  said  of  men  and  women  that  though  they  be 
born  of  one  blood  yet  they  are  ever  strangers  each 
to  other,  both  by  kind  and  by  custom,  and  though 
they  sit  at  one  board  and  lie  under  one  blanket, 
yet  they  dwell  apart  all  their  life  days.  But  Aithne 
hated  that  saying  in  her  heart,  and  in  her  hope  she 
bettered  it. 

{From  "Aladore,"  19 14.) 


The   Invisible   Country  41 

THE    INVISIBLE    COUNTRY 

Then  they  two  left  the  way  under  the  wall,  and 
passed  out  between  the  trees:  and  they  cast  them- 
selves down  upon  the  grass  and  lay  there  for  a  space 
looking  towards  the  sea.  And  below  them  where 
they  lay  was  the  high  steep,  grey  and  green;  and 
below  the  steep  was  a  beach  upon  the  margent  of 
the  water.  And  as  for  the  water,  that  was  of  two 
kinds,  for  nigh  land  it  was  unvexed  and  still,  as  a 
deep  river  is  still:  but  a  mile  out  it  was  broken  and 
foam-flecked,  as  it  were  a  great  green  meadow 
and  a  thousand  of  white  sheep  thereon,  and  so 
continued  as  far  out  as  eye  could  see.  And  Ywain 
marvelled  to  see  the  breaking  of  the  water,  for  there 
was  no  wind  and  the  tide  was  well-nigh  silent  upon 
the  strand.  And  Hubert  told  him  that  it  was  no 
marvel,  for  the  water  inshore  was  deep,  so  that  a 
ship  might  go  thereon:  "but  out  yonder,"  he  said, 
"no  man  may  sail  and  keep  his  hfe,  for  the  sea  is 
full  on  every  side  with  banks  of  sand,  and  the  name 
of  them  is  called  the  Shepherdine  Sands,  and  many 
a  one  have  they  covered  from  all  sight  and  seeking." 

Then  said  Ywain,  "  They  are  well  named  by  the 
name  of  the  Shepherdine  Sands,  for  I  see  the  sheep 
plainly;  but  tell  me  this,  for  what  sake  any  man 
should  go  among  them  to  peril  of  death?  "  And 
Hubert  said,  "  For  the  sake  of  Aladore."  Then 
Ywain  thought  to  anger  him  that  he  might  be  the 
more   certainly   answered:    so   he  spoke  scornfully 


42  The   Pilgrim's   Vision 

and  said,  "  What  manner  of  men  are  they  that  for 
such  a  sake  will  go  to  peril  of  death  ?  "  But  Hubert 
was  no  whit  angered,  and  he  said  joyfully,  "  Well 
worth  the  peril  and  the  death;  for  they  tell  such 
tales  of  Aladore  that  if  but  the  half  of  them  be  true, 
then  may  it  well  be  the  land  of  every  man's  desire. 
And  this  you  believe  not  yet,  for  you  have  not  seen 
it,  nor  can  I  tell  you  on  what  day  or  by  what  enchant- 
ment you  may  come  to  see  it :  for  a  man  may  watch 
half  his  life  in  vain,  and  suddenly  in  the  lifting  of 
his  eyes  it  will  be  there,  between  sky  and  sea,  as 
clear  as  stone  in  sunlight." 

Then,  when  he  heard  this,  Ywain  was  silent  for 
a  space,  and  continued  looking  out  to  seaward: 
but  he  saw  there  nothing  that  was  new,  for  he  saw 
only  the  sttU  water  anear  him,  and  afar  off  the  blue 
border  of  the  sky;  and  between  them  he  saw  that 
pasture  perilous  of  the  Shepherdine  Sands. 

{From  "  Aladore,"  1914.) 

THE    PILGRIM'S    VISION 

Then  the  shepherdess  led  Ywain  forth  upon  the 
hill,  and  behind  them  was  the  river  and  before  them 
was  the  little  beechen  grove.  And  they  came  to  the 
grove  and  sat  within  the  shade  of  it  and  looked  over 
the  valley:  and  the  sheep  went  cropping  the  wild 
thyme  and  the  milkwort,  and  clanking  pleasantly 
with  their  bells.  And  the  shepherdess  looked  down- 
ward upon  Ywain,  for  he  lay  before  her  at  her  feet : 
and  he  turned  and  looked  upward  into  her  eyes. 


The   Pilgrim's    Vision  43 

And  as  he  looked  the  day  went  over  him  in  a  moment 
of  time,  between  two  beats  of  his  heart:  and  he 
lacked  speech  of  her  no  longer,  for  he  dreamed  under 
her  silence  as  a  man  may  dream  under  a  starry  night. 

Then  she  rose  and  led  him  again  downward:  and 
the  sheep  went  down  before  them  to  the  river,  and 
fell  to  drinking  greedily.  And  as  they  drank  the 
wind  of  evening  came  softly  down  the  stream,  and 
upon  it  came  a  sound  of  piping:  and  Ywain's  heart 
ached  to  hear  that  piping,  for  it  was  of  a  sad 
and  piercing  sweetness.  Then  his  feet  began  to 
move  beneath  him,  and  he  left  the  sheep  to  their 
drinking  and  went  toward  the  music.  And  he  came 
to  a  glassy  pool  among  the  rocks:  and  upon  the 
rocks  was  the  young  faun  sitting,  and  playing  on 
his  pipes,  and  under  his  feet  was  the  evening  sky, 
shown  clearly  upon  the  water  of  the  pool. 

And  Ywain  came  near,  for  the  music  drew  him 
strongly:  and  he  stood  and  looked  upon  the  pool, 
and  he  saw  the  sky  therein.  And  he  saw  it  not  as 
sky  but  as  a  great  region  of  the  sea:  for  the  clouds 
upon  it  were  like  lands  of  earth,  and  they  lay  there 
after  the  fashion  of  bays  and  heads  and  islands. 
And  there  was  a  coast  that  lay  fast  by  him,  as  it 
were  beneath  his  very  feet:  and  it  ran  to  the  right 
of  him  and  to  the  left,  and  beyond  it  was  the  void 
space  of  the  sea.  And  as  he  looked  upon  the  coast 
he  knew  it  well:  for  he  stood  by  seeming  upon  the 
High  Steep  of  Paladore,  and  looked  out  over  the 
Shepherdine  Sands. 

Then  with  the  beauty  of  the  place  he  fell  to  longing. 


44  The   Eternal   City 

and  because  of  the  music  that  he  heard  his  heart 
was  restless:  and  he  desired  greatly  to  be  seeking 
for  the  land  wherefrom  that  music  came.  And  in 
a  moment  it  was  there  before  him,  beyond  the  void 
space  of  the  sea.  And  the  form  of  it  was  as  the  form 
of  Paladore,  with  the  city  and  the  steep  all  fashioned 
out  of  cloud:  but  it  lay  lonely  and  far  out,  like  an 
island  of  the  West.  And  a  light  was  upon  it  more 
delectable  than  all  the  lights  of  sunset,  so  that  it 
seemed  to  burn  also  in  the  eyes  of  him  that  saw  it: 
and  the  light  and  the  music  increased  together, 
and  together  they  faded  and  ceased.  And  when  they 
ceased  Ywain  turned  him  aside  to  weep,  for  he  per- 
ceived that  he  was  homeless. 

But  as  he  turned  he  saw  his  lady  beside  him 
standing,  and  she  spoke  and  called  him  by  his  name 
as  one  that  knew  him  afresh  and  was  no  more  be- 
dumbed.  And  he  cast  himself  into  her  arms  and 
kissed  her:  for  he  knew  that  he  had  had  sight  of  no 
earthly  city  but  of  Aladore.  Then  he  looked  again 
upon  the  pool,  if  by  fortune  he  might  see  that  city 
again:  and  he  saw  but  a  ripple  in  the  water,  for 
with  his  hoof  the  faun  had  dabbled  it. 

{From  "  Aladore,"  1914.) 

THE    ETERNAL    CITY 

Then  said  Ywain:  "Doubtless  your  saying  is  true, 
and  well  have  I  proved  the  gift:  yet  I  marvel  not- 
withstanding, for  man  may  wonder  in  despite  of 


The   Eternal    City  45 

knowledge.  And  there  is  one  matter  concerning 
which  I  am  still  perplexed."  And  Aithne  said  to 
him:  "Say  on."  And  he  said  to  her:  "  I  am  per- 
plexed between  two  verities :  for  there  is  one  truth  of 
Paladore  and  another  of  Aladore,  and  though  they 
be  diverse  yet  they  both  have  by  seeming  the  nature 
of  truth  veritable.  And  many  times  mj^  mind  is  in 
doubt  concerning  them:  for  in  our  Hfe  that  now  is 
we  come  and  go  between  two  realms,  and  I  would 
that  I  might  know  which  of  them  shall  outdure 
other." 

And  Aithne  asked  him:  "After  what  manner 
seem  these  verities  to  you?"  And  he  answered: 
"  0  beloved,  now  am  I  with  you  in  Aladore,  and  all 
things  else  and  all  men  and  all  places  are  but  as 
shadows  cast  by  this  our  life,  and  we  move  them 
as  we  will,  and  as  we  will  we  take  away  their  being. 
But  when  I  am  alone  and  dwelling  yonder  among 
men,  then  have  those  shadows  truth  of  substance 
and  of  touch,  and  the  life  of  Aladore  becomes  an 
image  in  the  mind,  as  it  was  aforetime  when  I  saw 
it  as  a  cloud  in  heaven." 

Then  Aithne  was  silent  a  space,  and  fear  came 
into  her  eyes:  and  afterwards  she  spoke  suddenly 
and  said:  "  O  my  beloved,  keep  innocency,  for  to 
a  child  these  things  are  plain.  And  you  were  a  child 
this  moment  past,  and  I  with  you:  and  wherefore 
now  should  we  cloud  our  wisdom  with  a  doubt?  " 
And  she  rose  up  and  said  to  him:  "  Let  us  play  a 
game  together,  as  children  that  play  upon  the  shore. 
For  here  is  sand  enough,  and  loneliness,  and  the 


46  The   Eternal  City 

tide  returning:  and  we  will  build  us  two  cities, 
and  see  which  of  the  two  shall  best  endure.  And 
you  shall  build  your  city  with  your  hands,  and 
name  it  Paladore :  and  you  shall  make  it  in  all  things 
like  to  the  city  that  you  know,  with  a  High  Steep 
seaward,  and  a  wall,  and  a  gateway  and  towers 
thereon.  And  I  also  will  make  a  city  and  name  it 
Aladore,  and  I  will  make  it  after  the  same  fashion, 
but  not  of  the  same  substance:  for  I  will  not  build 
it  with  hands  but  with  a  power  of  the  spirit." 

So  Ywain  took  of  the  wet  sand  and  of  the  dr}', 
and  he  buUt  him  a  great  mound  after  the  manner 
of  children.  And  when  he  had  made  it  strong  then 
he  carved  it  into  the  hkeness  of  a  city,  with  a  high 
steep  and  a  wall  and  towers  thereon:  and  it  stood 
upon  the  shore  and  looked  out  seaward,  and  he 
named  it  Paladore,  for  it  was  fashioned  in  no  other 
wise,  and  the  tide  came  running  toward  the  edges 
of  the  steep. 

Then  Ywain  said  to  Aithne:  "This  is  my  city, 
0  my  playfellow,  and  I  marvel  that  yours  is  not 
yet  a-building."  But  Aithne  answered  him  not, 
for  she  was  singing  a  song  of  witchery:  and  she 
sang  in  a  low  voice  and  sweet,  and  as  she  sang  she 
weaved  a  witch-knot  upon  the  air  with  both  her 
hands.  And  immediately  there  came  a  Httle  mist 
upon  the  shore,  and  the  mist  drew  upward  from  the 
sand  and  hung  in  one  place  upon  the  air  hke  smoke : 
and  so  it  continued  the  while  Aithne  sang  her  song. 
And  when  she  had  ceased  from  her  singing  then 
Ywain  saw  the  mist  no  more,  for  it  was  clean  vanished 


The   Eternal   City  47 

and  in  the  place  thereof  was  another  mound  and 
another  city,  in  semblance  like  unto  the  first,  and 
those  two  cities  were  nigh  together  upon  the  shore 
and  the  tide  came  about  them  both  by  little  and 
little. 

And  Ywain  and  Aithne  stood  still  and  looked 
upon  the  tide :  and  it  came  running  and  lapping  more 
fiercely,  and  the  froth  of  it  began  to  foam  upon  the 
edges  of  the  mounds.  And  the  water  gnawed  upon 
the  sand  of  the  one  city,  and  that  was  Ywain's:  and 
the  walls  and  towers  of  it  began  to  crumble  and 
to  crack,  and  at  the  last  they  were  perished  wholly 
as  by  ruin  of  time,  and  the  tide  flowed  over  them 
and  they  were  gone.  But  with  Aithne's  city  it  was 
not  so,  for  the  sea  bit  not  upon  it  nor  overflowed  it, 
but  it  stood  above  the  water  until  the  turning  of  the 
tide.  And  Ywain  came  near  to  touch  it,  but  he 
could  not,  for  it  was  but  mist  between  his  fingers. 
And  he  left  it  alone  and  stood  and  looked  upon  it 
again:  and  it  endured  as  rock,  notwithstanding  it 
was  builded  of  a  song. 

Then  he  said  to.  Aithne:  "  Tlie  game  is  nought, 
for  you  have  played  it  by  no  fair  hazard  but  by  en- 
chantment." And  she  answered  him:  "Not  so,  for 
by  this  same  enchantment  is  Aladore  upbuilded  and 
sustained,  and  that  is  the  truth  of  it."  And  she 
looked  into  his  eyes  and  her  spirit  entered  into  him, 
and  they  twain  were  one  spirit.  And  the  dusk  began 
to  fall  about  them  and  peace  therewith,  for  they 
were  in  their  own  place  beyond  time  and  tide. 

{From  "Aladore,"  1914.) 


48  The   Ballads 


THE    BALLADS 

The  ballads,  then,  after  all,  are  not  so  wholly  imper- 
sonal as  some  have  thought  them;  by  choice,  by 
rejection,  and  by  addition  they  have  been  made 
to  set  forth  a  personal  view,  and  this  they  do  as 
consistently  as  if  they  were  all  the  compositions 
of  a  single  author.  The  view  is  the  view  of  a  nation 
and  not  of  an  individual,  but  it  does  mingle  regret 
and  desire,  it  does  re-create  the  world  for  us. 

After  what  fashion  ?  Let  us  look  once  more  at  the 
ballads ;  not  at  the  manner  of  them,  but  the  matter, 
the  stories  they  tell,  and  the  unconscious  attitude 
which  they  reveal.  The  oldest  of  them  are  not  of 
native  origin;  they  come,  as  we  have  seen,  from  the 
ancient  folk-lore  of  Europe,  and  in  particular  from 
Scandinavia.  But  they  are  British  by  choice  and 
favour;  they  were  congenial  from  the  first.  The 
world  they  tell  of  is  full  of  powers  stronger  than 
man — of  Tam  Lins  and  Queens  of  Elfland, — and 
beyond  it  lies  a  grim  life  of  the  dead,  fiery  trials, 
mouldering  graves,  and  vain  revisitings  of  the 
beloved  on  earth.  The  tales  are  primitive,  but,  I 
think,  not  childish;  a  child  may  be  pleased  with 
them,  but  a  child  could  not  have  made  them.  They 
have  meaning — not  symbolic  meaning,  for  that 
must  be  consciously  created;  but  they  are  in  re- 
lation to  human  life.  To  read  through  Thomas  the 
Rhymer  or  Binnorie  and  not  to  perceive  this  would 


The   Ballads  49 

be  but   a  dull  amusement.      When  True  Thomas 

is  warned  of  his  danger,  he  replies : 

"  Betide  me  weal,  betide  me  woe,. 

That  weird  shall  never  daunten  me." 
Syne  he  has  kissed  her  rosy  lips. 
All  underneath  the  Eildon  Tree. 

This  is  part  of  no  childish  fairy-tale ;   nor  is  this  that 
tells  of  the  harper  who  found  the  dead  lady : 

• 

He's  ta'en  three  locks  o'  her  yellow  hair, 
And  wi'  them  strung  his  harp  sae  rare. 

From  the  beginning,  then,  the  ballads  present  life 
as  a  tale  that  has  significance;  and  the  significance 
arises  naturally — that  is,  not  from  the  supernatural 
side,  but  from  the  human  passions.  The  ballads 
do  not  bhnk  the  passions;  there  is  no  pretence  that 
this  world  is  a  quiet  or  decent  place.  It  is  not  only 
that  death,  the  inevitable  end,  is  unforgotten  and 
unhidden,  but  in  half  the  stories  it  comes  tragically, 
by  violence,  by  cruelty,  by  treachery,  or  by  fatal 
error.  But  there  is  always  the  tragic  redemption: 
unflinching  acceptance,  without  rebellion,  often  with- 
out complaint.  John  Steward  kills  his  wife's  lover, 
as  he  thinks;  in  reahty  it  is  her  son,  Childe  Maurice. 
The  murderer  throws  the  head  into  her  lap : 

But  when  she  looked  on  Childe  Maurice'  head 
She  ne'er  spoke  words  but  three : 
"  I  never  bare  no  child  but  one, 

And  you  have  slain  him,  trulye." 

Under  the  cruellest  blows  the  people  of  that  world 
do  not  wince;  they  know  what  must  be  done,  by 
their  code,  and  they  do  it.  They  do  not  attempt  to 
patch  life;    they  end  it.    When  Lord  Gregory  finds 


50  The   Ballads 

that  his  Fair  Annie  and  her  babe  have  been  drowned 
at  his  own  door,  he  curses  his  mother  who  has  done 
the  wrong,  but  makes  no  more  ado. 

Then  he's  ta'en  out  a  little  dart 

Hung  low  down  by  his  gore; 
He  thrust  it  through  and  through  his  heart, 

And  words  spake  never  more. 

Glasgerion's  lady,  Uke  Lucrece,  scorns  to  outlive  her 
honour,   tilasgerion  kills  her  betrayer,  and  follows: 

He  set  the  sword's  point  till  his  breast 

The  pommel  till  a  stone; 
Through  the  falseness  of  that  lither  lad 

These  three  lives  were  all  gone. 

It  is  pity — there  is  no  lack  of  pity  in  the  ballads. 
Even  the  greatest  brute  in  the  whole  series,  fause 
Edom  o'  Gordon,  says,  when  he  has  killed  the  babe 
before  its  mother's  eyes : 

"  I  canna  look  on  that  bonnie  face 
As  it  lies  on  the  grass." 

No,  there  is  no  lack  of  pity,  but  there  is  also  the 
recognition  that,  pitiful  as  death  is,  there  are  things 
more  pitiful  and  not  to  be  endured.  At  Otterboume, 
when  Percy  finds  the  Scots  five  to  one  against  him, 
and  his  father  sends  to  bid  him  wait  for  help,  he 
replies  that  his  troth  is  plight  to  Douglas : 

Yet  had  I  liefer  be  rynde  and  rent 

— By  Mary,  that  mickle  may  I — 
Than  ever  my  manhood  be  reproved 

With  a  Scot,  another  day. 

Wherefore  shoot,  archers,  for  my  sake! 

And  let  sharp  arrows  flee. 
Minstrels,  play  up  for  your  waryson, 

And  well  quit  it  shall  be ! 


The   Ballads  51 

On  the  other  side  Douglas  is  as  good :  when  he  knows 

his  time  has  come,  his  only  care  is  to  keep  the  fight 

going;     he    bids    his   nephew    take    command    and 

conceal  his  death : 

"  My  wound  is  deep,  I  am  fayn  to  sleep. 
Take  thou  the  vaward  of  me, 
And  hide  me  by  the  bracken  bush 
Grows  on  yon  lilye-lee." 

With  this  may  be   matched   the    death   of    Robin 

Hood.     When  Little  John  finds  his  chief  dying  by 

the  treachery  of  the  Abbess  of  Kirkleys,  he  begs  as 

a  last  boon  to  be  allowed  to  bum  the  nunnery  in 

revenge. 

"  Now  nay,  now  nay,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
"  That  boon  I'll  not  grant  thee; 
I  never  hurt  woman  in  all  my  life, 

Nor  men  in  their  company. 
I  never  hurt  maid  in  all  my  time, 
Nor  at  mine  end  shall  it  be." 

There  are  stout   men,   too,   among  the  humbler 

outlaws   of   a   later   time:     Johnnie   of   Cockerslee, 

fighting   the   Seven   Foresters   who   have   wounded 

him  in  his  sleep: 

"  stand  stout,  stand  stout,  my  noble  dogs. 
Stand  stout,  and  dinna  flee ! 
Stand  fast,  stand  fast,  my  good  grey  hounds. 
And  we  will  gar  them  dee!  " 

and  Hobble  Noble,  banished  for  his  misdeeds,  but 

scorning   to    his   last  hour  the  private  treason  by 

which  he  was  brought  to  justice: 

"  I'd  rather  be  ca'd  Hobbie  Noble, 

In  Carlisle,  where  he  suffers  for  his  faut. 
Before  I  were  ca'd  the  traitor  Mains, 
That  eats  and  drinks  o'  the  meal  and  maut." 


52  The   Ballads 

Treachery,  then,  the  ballad-makers  hated;  cruelty 
they  regretted;  and  to  hurt  a  woman,  to  turn  away 
from  a  fight,  or  to  give  in  before  the  blood  gave 
out,  was  to  them  dishonour.  They  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  keep  the  law,  but  then  the  law  was 
not  of  their  own  making;  it  was  either  the  bondage 
of  convention  or  the  rule  of  the  rich.  They  cared 
little  for  comfort;  love  and  wine  and  gold  they 
loved,  but  these  are  not  comfort.  The  sleek,  sensual 
abbot,  with  his  ambUng  pad  and  his  fat  money-bags, 
was  their  abhorrence — he  and  his  ally,  the  hard, 
tyrannical  sheriff,  the  mediaeval  chief  of  police. 
These  two  stood  for  a  social  order  in  which  the  spirit 
was  enslaved  to  the  body,  and  the  body  to  mere 
authority.  What  Borderer  could  bear  with  that? 
What  free  man  would  not  applaud  the  stout  fellow 
who  struck  his  blow,  and  took  to  the  greenwood 
or  the  green  road  ?  The  social  order  which  the  ballad- 
makers  imagined  for  themselves,  and  which,  at 
least  in  Northumberland  and  Nottingham,  they 
supposed  to  have  been  put  into  practice,  was  a 
chaotic  order,  a  wild  and  bloodstained  life;  but  as 
they  saw  it  and  sang  of  it,  it  was  a  noble  choice 
between  two  sets  of  evils.  There  are  great  possibilities, 
no  doubt,  in  the  life  of  peace  and  comfort,  and  we 
must  hope  they  may  some  day  be  reaUsed;  but 
perhaps  there  is  something  to  be  said  yet  for  the 
ballad  life  as  an  ideal.  With  all  its  crimes  and  sorrows, 
it  was  a  Ufe  of  the  spirit;  it  was  full  of  generosity 
and  courage  and  sincerity;  and,  above  all,  it  set 
Death  in  his  right  place. 


The    Ballads  53 

It  is  but  giving  over  of  a  game 
That  all  must  lose. 

They  may  have  been  mistaken,  the  ballad-makers; 
they  may  have  sympathised  too  much  with  passionate 
lovers  and  bonny  fighters  and  the  young  and  beautiful 
who  fling  their  Uves  away.  For  my  argument  that 
does  not  matter;  my  point  here  is  that  they  did  re- 
build the  world  in  the  imagination  of  the  thoughts  of 
their  hearts,  and  their  work  may  therefore  be  ranked 
with  the  work  of  the  poets. 

If,  then,  in  beauty  and  in  creative  power  the 
ballads  are  akin  to  other  poetry,  in  what  consists 
that  "  singularity  "  or  pecuHar  character  of  which 
we  have  spoken — a  singularity  so  marked  that  even 
the  best  ballads  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  and  Mr.  Rudyard 
Kiphng  could  not  properly  be  bound  up  with  them 
in  one  collection — a  peculiar  character  the  taste 
for  which  we  are  said  to  have  outgrown  ?  My  answer 
is  that  the  singularity  lies  in  the  artistic  method  of 
the  ballads,  and  that  I  do  not  believe  we  have  out- 
grown the  pleasure  to  be  got  by  it.  No  doubt  among 
the  minor  devices  of  the  old  ballad-writers  there 
are  some  which  are  worn  out,  but  they  were  all  good 
in  their  time,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  they  should 
not  be  replaced. 

Up  then  crew  the  red,  red  cock. 
And  up  and  crew  the  grey. 

was  once  a  good  way  to  tell  of  the  dawn ;  it  is  good 
still  in  the  story  of  Usher's  Well,  but  it  would  not 
be  good  in  a  modern  poem,  because  it  would  not  be 
natural  or  sincere.    To  admit  this  is  not  to  give  up 


54  The   Ballads 

the  ballad  form.  There  is  far  more  in  a  poetical  form 
than  mere  tricks  of  phrasing,  "  The  mediaeval  ballad," 
says  Professor  Ker,  "  is  a  form  used  by  poets  with 
their  eyes  open  upon  life,  and  with  a  form  of  thought 
in  their  minds  by  which  they  comprehend  a  tragic 
situation."  If  life  is  to  be  no  longer  full  of  tragic 
situations,  if  the  life  of  nations  is  to  be  no  longer 
akin  to  the  fighting  life  of  our  ancestors,  then  perhaps 
we  can  afford  to  discard  that  form  of  thought  and 
put  away  the  ballads  as  childish  things. 

That  is  not  an  easy  belief  at  this  moment;  to 
some  of  us  it  has  never  been  an  easy  belief.  It  is 
true  that  for  generations  now  our  greatest  poetry  has 
been  subjective,  introspective,  analytical — often  so 
intellectual  as  to  be  a  reflection  upon  life  rather  than 
itself  a  form  of  life.  But  on  the  other  side  there  have 
been  changes  too  ;  the  consciousness  of  national 
life  has  been  so  intensified  that  epic  poetry  has  be- 
come once  more  possible.  The  ballads  are,  before  all 
things,  epic ;  they  are  the  heroic  life  of  a  people  told 
in  lyric  episodes.  What  is  Mr.  Kipling's  Ballad  of 
East  and  West  ?  Is  it  a  personal  anecdote  in  verse  ? 
No,  for  the  name  of  the  hero  is  never  mentioned ;  he 
is  the  Colonel's  son,  the  servant  of  the  White  Queen, 
the  type  of  the  heroic  West.  What  is  Mr.  Hardy's 
great  poem  The  Dynasts  ?  A  drama  in  form,  but  an 
epic  in  form  of  thought,  for  it  is  concerned  with 
individuals  only  as  units  of  national  life.  To  these 
reflections  our  present  experience  is  adding  another; 
we  are  looking  day  by  day  upon  a  battle  of  nations, 
where  valour  is  of  little  account  unless  it  is  the 


Song  55 

valour  of  millions,  and  where  the  bonniest  fighter 
asks  for  no  glory  but  the  realisation  that  he  has 
"  done  his  bit."  The  poets  will  in  time  sing  of  this 
battle,  and  will  thereby  express  a  multitude  of 
individual  feelings,  their  own  and  other  men's, 
in  forms  which  will  be  new  and  necessary.  But  it 
may  be  that  one  or  two,  less  distinguished,  less 
differentiated  from  the  national  type,  will  be  moved 
to  express  more  elementary  feelings  by  a  more  ob- 
jective method.  If  so,  they  will  be  likely  enough 
to  utter  them  in  the  old  ballad  form — a  form,  I  be- 
Heve,  still  of  very  powerful  enchantment,  capable  of 
moving  the  heart  both  with  the  sound  pf  the  trumpet 
and  with  the  deeper  music  of  the  harp  of  Binnorie, 
strung  with  remembrance  of  the  dead. 

{From  "i4  New  Study  of  English  Poetry,"  1917.) 


SONG 

{To  an  air  by  Henry  Lawes,  published  in  1652) 

The  flowers  that  in  thy  garden  rise, 
Fade  and  are  gone  when  Summer  flies. 
And  as  their  sweets  by  time  decay, 
So  shall  thy  hopes  be  cast  away. 

The  Sim  that  gilds  the  creeping  moss 
Stayeth  not  Earth's  eternal  loss: 
He  is  the  lord  of  all  that  live, 
Yet  there  is  life  he  cannot  give. 


5^  History  and  Time 

The  stir  of  Morning's  eager  breath — 
Beautiful  Eve's  impassioned  death — 
Thou  lovest  these,  thou  lovest  well, 
Yet  of  the  Night  thou  canst  not  tell. 

In  every  land  thy  feet  may  tread, 
Time  like  a  veil  is  round  thy  head: 
Only  the  land  thou  seek'st  with  me 
Never  hath  been  nor  yet  shall  be. 

It  is  not  far,  it  is  not  near. 
Name  it  hath  none  that  Earth  can  hear; 
But  there  thy  Soul  shall  build  again 
Memories  long  destroyed  of  men, 
And  Joy  thereby  shall  like  a  river 
Wander  from  deep  to  deep  for  ever. 

{Front  "  Dream  Market,"  1908.) 


HISTORY   AND    TIME 

You  take  it  for  a  kind  of  literary  gift  in  me — a  power 
to  convince  by  words,  to  make  less  real,  less  living 
people  appear  almost  as  real  and  living  as  those  we 
live  among.  But  that  is  the  opposite  of  the  truth. 
To  revisit  the  past  in  my  way  is  to  strip  off  illusions, 
not  to  put  them  on.  Time  is  the  greatest  of  all 
illusions;  it  persuades  us  that  our  most  fantastic 
dream  is  true — the  dream  that  things  and  people 
come   into   being   and   pass   out   of   being   again — 


History  and  Time  57 

though  we  know,  if  we  once  think  of  it,  that  eternity 
is  a  single  instant,  and  that  there  are  two  kinds  of 
things  or  people — those  that  are,  and  those  that  are 
not.  Those  of  us  who  are  at  all  are  every  one  con- 
temporaries; but  we  live,  as  it  were,  like  figures 
in  a  tapestry — invisible  to  each  other,  and  fondly 
imagining  we  are  made  of  different  thread  to  our 
neighbours,  whom  we  have  never  seen.  There  is 
no  reason  why  we  should  not  see  them;  they  are 
here  as  much  as  we  are;  we  have  only  to  take  the 
cap  of  darkness  from  our  heads  and  find  them  as 
human  as  ourselves.  In  childhood  we  are  wise; 
we  know  no  difference  between  the  centuries;  but 
it  is  the  first  business  of  our  teachers  to  lay  stress 
upon  the  trivial  contrasts  of  speech  and  dress  which 
they  think  will  make  the  wooden  peepshow  of  their 
history  attractive;  the  rest — the  life  we  share — 
they  know  nothing  about.  I  remember  asking  my 
first  governess  if  she  had  ever  seen  the  Black  Prince, 
and  whether  he  was  like  any  one  I  knew.  She 
scolded  me  for  a  silly  child;  but  I  have  lived  to 
know  him  intimately,  and  to  see  his  comrades  giving 
their  own  breakfast  to  a  conquered  Boer  army. 
They  did  not  know  that  they  were  five  centuries 
out  of  date. 

(From  "  The  Old  Country,"  1906.) 


58  Time  and   the   Land 


TIME    AND   THE    LAND 

And  what  of  that  land  itself?  What  of  the  lew 
hundred  acres  of  it  which  the  child-like  Saxon  in 
some  dim  century  named  Gardenleigh?  Is  it  not 
a  dream  ?  Even  as  we  know  it,  is  it  not  the  dream 
of  seven  and  twenty  generations?  Year  after  year, 
life  after  life,  century  after  century,  to  all  who  have 
seen  it,  whether  as  squires  or  serfs,  natives  or  settlers, 
it  has  been  the  fabric  upon  which  the  pattern  of 
their  days  was  woven — the  perfect  setting  of  high 
dawns  and  tender  sunsets,  of  birth,  and  toil,  and 
passion,  and  pursuit;  of  all  joys,  and  many  partings 
and  inevitable  death.  Now  they  themselves  are 
dust,  or  less  than  dust;  nothing  is  left  of  them  but 
the  shrines  they  built,  the  woods  they  planted,  the 
mounds  in  the  churchyard,  and  a  few  stones,  for 
the  most  part  long  since  broken  and  illegible.  But 
Gardenleigh  is  still  as  green  as  ever.  Can  it  be  that 
the  dream  has  indeed  outlasted  the  dreamers  so 
utterly  ?  Has  the  slow  stream  of  human  life  had  no 
effect  upon  these  meadows  that  it  has  so  long 
watered?  Are  they  no  richer  for  all  this  love,  no 
more  fertile  to  the  spirit  than  the  raw  clearings  of 
yesterday  in  new-discovered  countries?  Are  there 
no  voices  but  ours  in  these  old  mossy  woods  and 
sunlit  gardens,  no  steps  but  ours  by  this  lake  where 
the  stars  are  mirrored  in  silence?     What,  then,  is 


Time   and   Music  59 

Time,  that  he  should  have  power  to  make  away 
with  the  dearest  memories  of  seven  and  twenty 
generations  ? 

{From  "  The  Old  Country,"  1906.) 


TIME    AND    MUSIC 

Mr.  Earnshaw  lifted  the  string  netting  which  hung 
before  the  open  porch,  and  Stephen  found  himself 
inside  the  smallest  church  he  had  ever  seen.  The 
cool,  dim  interior  was  refreshing  by  contrast  with 
the  noonday  glare  outside,  and  a  breath  of  faint 
perfume  came  from  the  font,  which  stood  close  to 
the  door,  and  had  been  newly  filled  with  flowers. 
Near  it,  and  quite  at  the  back  of  the  church,  sat 
Eleanor  Ryder,  listening  to  Aubrey's  chants,  which, 
now  that  the  practice  was  over  and  the  little  choir 
departed,  rolled  uninterruptedly  from  the  chancel 
in  a  low,  soft  current  that  seemed  like  a  reverie  made 
audible. 

The  two  men  sat  down  silently,  and  Stephen 
fixed  his  eyes  upon  the  organ  chamber;  but  the 
spell  of  the  music  gained  upon  him  imperceptibly, 
and  in  a  very  short  time,  though  he  was  quite  uncon- 
scious of  the  fact,  his  own  outward  existence  and 
that  of  Aubrey  herself  had  passed  entirely  from 
his  thoughts.  It  was  as  though  the  life  within  him 
no  longer  looked  out  through  the  windows  of  sense, 
but  withdrew  into  an  inner  and  more  real  world, 


6o  Time   and    Music 

where  he  was  led  from  depth  to  depth  of  emotion, 
and  brought  from  remorse  to  hope,  from  endurance 
to  passionate  joy,  with  an  ever  growing  sense  of 
strength  and  purification.  Things  and  events  had 
become  meaningless,  action  was  one  with  feeling, 
and  every  feeling  was  intensified  beyond  measure, 
for  it  was  no  longer  the  emotion  of  an  individual, 
but  the  consciousness  of  a  vast  unison — a  unison 
so  infinite  that  it  seemed  to  gather  into  the  beating 
of  one  heart  the  agony  and  the  aspiration  of  all  the 
generations  of  men.  Wave  after  wave,  the  music 
rose  and  fell,  and  rose  and  fell  again,  with  the  same 
long,  rolling  cadence,  as  though  it  had  begun  before 
memory  and  would  continue  beyond  time. 

But  at  last  it  ceased,  and  Stephen  came  back  to 
the  material  world.  As  his  outward  consciousness 
returned,  he  found  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  a 
mysterious,  long-robed  figure,  which  seemed  to  be 
receding  from  his  sight  along  a  stately  chamber, 
in  which  the  tracery  of  a  golden  canopy  stood  out 
against  a  background  of  deep  ruby  colour.  The  face, 
which  was  still  turned  towards  him,  was  already  too 
dim  for  the  features  to  be  distinguishable,  but  every- 
thing else  about  it,  from  the  outward  curves  of  the 
crozier  in  its  hand  to  the  chequered  floor  at  its  feet, 
had  a  clear  and  gem-like  brightness. 

"  The  windows  are  the  best  thing  in  the  church," 
he  heard  Mr.  Earnshaw  saying.  "  There  is  no  older 
or  finer  glass  in  Somerset." 

{From  "  The  Old  Country,"  1906.) 


A  Mediaeval   Funeral  6i 


A    MEDI/EVAL    FUNERAL 

Stephen ,  the  Colonial  prophet  of  the  Future,  has  un- 
expectedly been  decoyed  back  into  the  England  of 
the  fourteenth  century. 

The  days  which  followed  were  darker  still.  Stephen 
had  iiad  no  previous  experience  of  the  preparations 
for  an  Enj^lish  funeral,  and  there  seemed  to  him  to 
be  something  unnatural  about  the  gloom  that  lay 
upon  the  house;  it  had  the  deadening  oppression  of 
a  nightmare,  and  he  felt  at  times  as  though  it  would 
never  lift  again,  Edmund  and  Harry,  Aubrej'  and 
himself — he  saw  them  all  busied  with  duties  which 
nuist  be  performed  neither  whoUi-heartedly  nor 
haU-lieartedly,  all  going  about  continually  under  the 
burden  of  a  meaningless  behaviour,  equally  far  from 
any  true  semblance  of  grief  or  joy.  A  tacit  and 
nerveless  consideration  for  each  other,  a  conventional 
regard  for  the  ex])ectations  of  a  wider  circle^ — ^these 
cloudy  spectres  had  breathed  an  icy  mist  on  all  the 
more  human  feelings,  had  forl)idden  sorrow  its 
moments  of  agony  and  relief,  its  free  expression  and 
its  high-hearted  resistence,  and  almost  seemed  for 
tile  time  to  have  bound  life  about  with  the  winding- 
slieet  of  the  dead,  stilling  every  voice  and  constrain- 
ing every  movement  with  its  frigid  and  unlovely 
folds. 

But  this  misery  of  deadness  was  not  to  last;    it 
vanished  for  ever  at  the  moment  when  they  all  stood 


62  A   Mediasval   Funeral 

in  Gardenleigh  Church  and  heard  the  first  words  of 
man's  immemorial  petition  for  his  beloved  dead. 
"Requiem  eternam,"  said  a  voice  that  was  and  was 
not  the  voice  of  Edmund,  "  Requiem  eternam  dona  ei 
Domine,  et  lux  perpetua  luceat  ei."  Tears  sprang  to 
Stephen's  eyes;  he  felt  himself  strangled  and  shaken 
by  a  sudden  passion.  It  could  be  no  grief  of  his 
own,  for  that  which  lay  before  him  under  the  blind 
and  silent  pall  had  never  been  for  him  the  symbol 
of  a  deep  or  long  familiar  affection.  But  he  saw 
around  him  not  only  the  sorrow  but  the  helplessness 
of  those  whom  he  loved ;  he  saw  old  age  and  manhood 
and  girlish  youth  all  alike  bowed  to  drink  of  that 
cup  which  must  always  keep  its  bitterness  while  man 
keeps  his  human  nature.  He  had  himself  laid  his 
father  in  the  grave;  but  that  parting,  terrible  as  it 
was,  had  come  upon  him  when  he  was  alone  and  in 
a  far  country;  it  had  made  a  complete  break  in  his 
own  life,  and  yet  had  troubled  the  happiness  of  no 
one  else,  so  that  he  had  come  to  think  of  it  as  a 
grief  peculiar  to  himself,  and  had  never  realised  that 
death  was  hourly  bringing  to  others  what  it  had  once 
brought  to  him.  Now  he  saw  that  the  greatest  of 
human  sorrows  is  one  and  indivisible,  and  that  what- 
ever immunities  man  may  learn  or  wrest  from  nature 
in  the  bright  world  of  the  future,  he  can  never,  even 
for  a  day,  shut  his  ears  against  the  passing  bell,  or 
deaden  his  heart  to  the  De  Profundis  of  his  race. 

The  sense  of  pity  was  deepened  yet  more  as  he 
looked  round  upon  the  company  of  friends  and 
neighbours  who  filled  the  church.     If  men  are  but 


A  Mediaeval   Funeral  63 

as  grass,  that  to-day  is  and  to-morrow  is  cut  down 
and  laid  away,  what,  then,  were  these  but  the  long 
fallen  leaves  of  a  very  far-off  summer,  to  whose 
hollow  forms  some  strange,  airy  current  of  his  own 
imagination  had  for  a  time  given  back  a  Ufelike  move- 
ment and  a  whisper  of  the  human  voice?  Yet  again 
he  saw  that,  in  their  love  and  grief  and  hope,  there 
was  a  reality  beyond  that  of  their  bodily  existence, 
and  he  fell  to  wondering  whether  the  hour  that  was 
waiting  for  them  all,  and  for  him  too  in  his  turn, 
would  bring  upon  them  any  change  of  the  true  self, 
comparable  to  that  which  must  befall  the  body. 
What  end  or  what  beginning  is  it  that  we  peer  at 
through  the  name  of  death  ?  How  are  we  to  think  of 
the  dead,  or  what  to  desire  for  them  and  for  ourselves  ? 

A  second  time  the  calm,  sad,  unwavering  voice 
began  its  deep  music — "  Requiem  eternam  dona  ei 
Domine  " ;  and  then,  through  the  murmur  of  the 
voices  that  echoed  it,  a  second  time  he  heard  the 
words  which  followed:  "  Et  lux  perpetua  luceat  ei." 
The  flood  of  thought  which  came  upon  him  seemed 
to  bear  him  up  no  longer;  he  sank  to  a  depth  where 
no  light  or  sound  of  the  material  world  could  reach 
his  consciousness.  When  he  returned  to  the  upper 
air  it  was  to  find  the  service  over,  and  Edmund 
standing  face  to  face  with  the  little  company  of 
mourners,  as  if  he  could  not  let  them  go  without 
one  more  word. 

"  My  friends,"  he  said,  "  it  has  been  the  custom  of 
our  people  from  a  time  beyond  memory  to  speak  of 
death  in  the  language  of  the  Psalmist — to  say  that 


64  A  Mediaeval  Funeral 

man's  life  is  a  shadow,  that  he  passes  away  and  his 
place  knows  him  no  more.  We  cannot  deny  that  it 
is  true,  yet  we  cannot  forget  that  it  is  true  only  with 
the  truth  of  this  world.  For  us  in  these  later  days 
another  view  is  possible — the  view,  not  of  men  who 
must  remain  behind,  but  rather  of  spirits  who  are 
upon  the  point  of  following.  We  may  bethink  our- 
selves that  for  those  who  are  dead,  and  for  us  too, 
since  we  shall  soon  be  with  them,  to  depart  hence  is 
not  to  perish,  but  to  survive  the  perishing  of  all  that 
was  less  real  about  us,  the  fading  of  all  the  shadows 
with  which  our  life  was  darkened.  To-day,  therefore, 
in  this  service  of  separation,  we  have  been  weeping 
not  only  for  the  loss  that  has  befallen  the  home 
of  our  transitory  existence,  but  also  for  our  own 
continued  blindness  that  will  not  let  us  see  life  as 
it  is.  One  whom  we  love  has  been  released  from  this 
darkness  and  bondage  of  time;  she  has  passed,  as 
the  greatest  of  all  poets  was  once  permitted  to  pass 
before  his  death,  from  the  human  life  to  the  divine, 
from  the  temporal  to  the  eternal.  In  our  prayers 
for  her  we  must  keep  this  always  before  us,  lest 
we  speak  the  old  familiar  phrases  with  the  under- 
standing of  a  bygone  age,  and  deceive  ourselves 
with  words  of  comfortable  sound  that  are  the  very 
denial  of  our  only  true  consolation.  If  we  ask  that 
God  may  give  His  beloved  eternal  rest,  we  must 
think  of  no  such  sleep  as  that  which  we  have  known 
ourselves.  They  shall  rest — not  from  their  work, 
but  from  their  labours;  not  from  their  service,  but 
from  the  wilfulness  and  vacillation  that  alone  could 


The   Secret   of   Oxford  65 

make  it  wearisome  :  they  shall  cease — not  from 
the  active  consciousness  which  is  the  life  of  the 
true  self,  but  from  the  appetites  and  trivialities 
by  which  that  life  is  here  continually  broken.  Let 
us  think  of  them,  therefore,  as  we  see  them  pictured 
upon  their  tombs:  l>ing  motionless  and  with  folded 
hands,  in  token  that  for  them  the  warfare  of  the 
body  has  been  accomplished,  and  the  will  surrendered 
to  the  eternal  peace;  with  eyes  upturned  and  open, 
to  signify  that  they  know  no  longer  the  alternation 
of  day  and  darkness,  but  enjoy  continually  all  know- 
ledge, all  love,  and  all  fulfilment,  as  it  were  in  one 
changeless  moment  of  perpetual  light." 

{From  "  The  Old  Country,"  1906.) 


THE    SECRET    OF    OXFORD 

The  real  charm  of  Oxford  and  the  hfe  men  live 
there  is  not  to  be  seen  or  imagined  from  outside. 
It  is  not  an  effect  of  mere  sentiment,  aroused  by 
the  presence  of  beautiful  buildings,  of  immemorial 
customs,  of  gardens  laid  with  ancient  turf  and 
shadowed  by  stately  trees.  It  does  not  lie  in  the 
quaUty  of  the  learning  that  is  offered  there,  or  the 
pastimes  and  pleasures  that  abound  in  many  kinds: 
nor  in  the  prestige  of  the  great  names  of  the  past, 
nor  in  the  morning  freshness  of  youth.  To  all  these 
there  is  one  thing  added:  the  city  is  a  fairy  city, 
neither  in  the  world  nor  of  it,  neither  far  from  the 
world  nor  oblivious  of  it;  it  stands  solitary  but  near 


66  The   Browning  Society 

by,  as  it  were  upon  the  cloud-hills  of  dawn,  at  the 
meeting-place  of  all  yesterdays  and  all  to-morrows, 
and  its  life  is  timeless.  While  you  are  there — so  the 
Percival  of  a  later  day  might  have  said  to  his  younger 
self — the  world  of  men  will  be  always  before  your 
eyes,  a  vivid  and  curious  spectacle  for  your  philosophy 
to  muse  upon:  but  it  will  have  no  power  to  trouble 
you.  You  will  suffer  none  of  its  anxieties,  limitations, 
perplexities:  you  will  be  delivered  from  the  pain  of 
transitoriness,  for  though  you  yourself  will  change 
incessantly,  it  will  be  only  as  thought  and  feeling 
change,  to  be  incessantly  renewed,  and  in  all  circum- 
stance you  will  be  untouched — set  in  am  unfading 
oasis,  a  point  of  windless  calm.  Give  yourself  up 
to  work  or  play,  as  you  will:  it  is  not  these  that 
will  haunt  you  all  your  life  after:  it  is  the  sure  and 
certain  continuance,  the  life  of  timeless,  changeless, 
fearless  perfection  that  we  who  have  so  long  lost  it 
so  long  and  poignantly  regret. 

Farewell,  we  said,  dear  city  of  youth  and  dream ! 
And  in  our  boat  we  stepped  and  took  the  stream. 

{From  "  The  Twymans,"  1911.) 


THE    OXFORD    BROWNING 
SOCIETY 

For  Percy,  as  for  other  dwellers  in  the  Enchanted 
City,  the  sense  of  Time,  as  we  know  it  in  the  outer 
world,  practically  did  not  exist.  The  Seasons,  it  is 
true,  flitted  round  him  in  their  accustomed  circle,  and 


The   Browning   Society  67 

a  very  gay  dance  they  made  of  it,  with  the  help  of  the 
nine  Muses,  the  seven-and-seventy  Spirits  of  Delight, 
Pan  and  the  River  Nymphs,  Thyrsis  and  the  Dryads : 
among  them  too  the  iridescent  wings  of  Cupid  flashed 
continually  in  and  out.  The  whirl  was  unresting,  but 
it  never  seemed  to  move :  it  changed  without  advanc- 
ing. As  it  was  last  year,  so  was  life  to-day,  so  it 
would  be  the  next  year  and  the  next,  as  full  of  mad 
pursuit  and  wild  ecstasy  as  the  men  and  maidens 
on  the  Grecian  Urn,  as  fixed  too  in  its  unfading 
beauty,  the  audible  and  visible  beauty  of  the  little 
town  by  the  river,  the  forest  branches,  the  songs  for 
ever  new,  the  loves  that  are  always  winning  near 
the  goal,  but  always  unfulfilled, — the  beauty  of  the 
marble  that  has  no  thought  for  the  day  when  it  will 
wake  and  pass  beyond  into  the  world  of  attainment 
and  mortality. 

Percy,  then,  and  his  friends  saw  nothing  of  Father 
Time;  but  with  his  daughters  they  danced  merrily 
enough,  one  after  another,  round  and  round  the 
magic  circle.  Soon  May,  for  the  second  time,  was 
calling  them,  with  blowing  of  horns  through  sleepy 
streets,  with  singing  of  psalms  on  high  towers  at 
sunrise,  with  early  wanderings  in  "  the  forest  ground 
called  Thessaly."  One  more  week  and  the  festival 
of  the  Eights  was  here  again. 

At  this  the  town  filled  suddenly  with  fresh  life 
and  unfamiliar  beauties:  you  saw  them  everywhere 
— bright  faces,  bright  frocks,  bright  parasols,  glowing 
patches  of  colour,  turning  old  grey  streets  to  the 
semblance  of  garden  borders  newly  blossomed;  or 


68  The   Browning   Society 

crossing  and  recrossing  before  the  set  back-ground 
of  cloisters  and  quadrangles  like  the  light-footed 
groups  which  pass  over  the  stage  when  the  curtain 
rises  and  the  play  is  just  beginning,  but  hardly  even 
yet  begun. 


Two  days  later  the  races  ended:  but  Old  May- 
day is  not  a  time  when  any  one  would  wish  to  leave 
Oxford  who  could  conveniently  stay  there,  and  many 
of  the  visitors  lingered  on.  Althea's  friends  were 
departing,  but  she  herself  accepted  an  invitation 
from  the  wife  of  Edward's  tutor,  who  had  a  pleasant 
house  beyond  the  Parks.  The  general  gaiety  con- 
tinued. A  dance  in  the  Masonic  Hall  was  improvised: 
there  were  daily  expeditions  by  river  to  Nuneham, 
to  Godstow,  to  Water  Eaton:  the  comedy  of  Love's 
Labour's  Lost  was  played  once  more  in  every  college 
garden,  between  irresistible  young  ladies  who  might 
have  forced  any  blockade,  and  irresolute  young 
gentlemen  who  proved,  like  Biron,  how  well  read  they 
were,  by  finding  plenty  of  reasons  against  reading. 

At  this  appropriate  moment  a  meeting  of  the 
Browning  Society  fell  due.  Edward  and  Percy 
were  members:  Althea  could  be  introduced  by 
her  hostess  as  a  guest.  The  proceedings  were  an- 
nounced to  consist  chiefly  of  a  paper  by  Mr.  Hedgeley 
on  the  Love  Poems  of  Robert  Browning:  they 
began,  however,  with  a  kind  of  evening  tea-party 
in  the  Hall  of  one  of  the  smaller  Colleges,  whose 
master,  a  great  scholar  with  a  literary  wife,  was 


The   Browning   Society  69 

chairman  and  entertainer  for  the  occasion.  The 
Society  was  unique  among  Oxford  institutions: 
one-third  of  the  members  were  dons,  one-third 
ladies,  one-third  undergraduates:  to-night  most  of 
them  were  present,  and  the  addition  of  a  fourth 
contingent  of  visitors  made  the  gathering  unusually 
large  and  animated. 

But  now  a  door  was  thrown  open,  and  the  whole 
company  was  conducted  from  the  hall  into  a  large 
\vithdra wing-room,  where  groups  of  chairs  and  well- 
shaded  lamps  had  been  arranged.  Every'  one  sat 
down,  and  the  reader  of  the  evening  was  called  upon. 

Mr.  Hedgeley  was  already  on  his  feet,  though  no 
one  had  seen  him  rise.  He  stood  at  one  end  of  the 
room,  in  the  open,  without  a  desk,  without  a  pose 
of  any  kind,  holding  his  paper  out  before  him  with 
one  hand  only,  tilting  his  head  a  little  back  and 
casting  his  eyes  down  so  as  to  show  the  eyelids 
almost  closed.  This  effect,  combined  with  the  flowing 
silver  of  his  beard,  gave  him  a  resemblance  to  a 
bust  of  Homer,  which  struck  Althea  at  once.  She 
noted,  too,  that  the  unconventional  attitude  was 
one  which  could  hardly  be  imagined  in  a  dress- 
coated  figure.  Finally,  when  he  began  to  read  she  was 
attracted  by  his  singularly  quiet  and  pleasant  voice. 

From  the  first  moment  the  whole  audience  was 
silent  and  attentive:  they  sat  spellbound  all  through 
the  shadowy  room.  The  paper  was  grave  in  tone, 
grave  even  when  it  was  humorous  :  it  flowed  on 
from  one  point  to  another  with  as  little  apparent 
art  as  an  essay  by  Montaigne,   and  much  of  the 


/o  The   Browning   Society 

time  was  taken  up  by  the  reading  aloud  of  consider- 
able passages,  and  even  of  whole  poems.  To  the 
hearers  these  were  probably  all  familiar,  but  familiar 
only  in  the  dumb  show  of  print :  to-night  they  took 
on  from  the  beauty  of  the  reader's  tones  and  the 
subtlety  of  his  interpretation  all  that  wealth  of  mean- 
ing and  reahty  which  the  living  voice  confers  even 
upon  its  least  memorable  utterances.  At  every 
pause,  low  murmurs  of  admiration  and  assent  came 
from  the  obscure  corners  of  the  room:  the  Society 
was  responding  hke  an  instrument  to  the  hand  of 
a  skilled  player. 

Percy  overheard  Althea  replying  to  a  glance  from 
her  brother.    "  Joachim,"  she  whispered. 

Edward  affirmed  her  judgment  in  less  cautious 
tones.  "  The  old  man's  dead  on  the  note  every 
time,"  he  said;  "  ev-er-y  time." 

The  paper  was  not  a  long  one:  at  the  end  of 
forty  minutes  it  ceased  as  quietly  as  it  had  begun, 
without  a  word  of  summing-up  or  anything  like  a 
peroration.  The  audience,  after  following  as  happily 
as  the  children  of  Hamelin  behind  the  Pied  Piper, 
felt  a  sudden  sense  of  loss — the  music  had  stopped, 
and  they  were  bewildered  to  find  that  they  had  been 
led  so  far.  There  was  a  certain  strain  about  the 
pause  which  followed. 

At  a  slight  stir  every  one  looked  up:  another 
speaker  had  risen,  a  tall,  dark  man  with  rugged 
features,  whose  contours  were  etched  by  the  shaded 
light  in  strong  contrasts  of  pallor  and  blackness. 
As  he  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  grasping  the  back 


The  Browning  Society  71 

of  a  chair  with  nervous  intensity,  Althea  turned 
to  Percy  with  a  question.  But  he  was  already  leaning 
towards  her. 

"Arthur  Turnbull,"  he  murmured;  "he's  a 
Balliol  don." 

A  lady  sitting  at  Mr.  Turnbull's  side  was  seen 
to  look  up  at  him  as  he  stood  hesitating.  He  saw, 
and  began  to  speak  at  once  with  perfect  confidence. 

"  The  paper  to  which  we  have  been  listening  has 
exceeded  even  our  hopes.  I  do  not  presume  to  praise. 
I  am  unable  to  criticise.  I  desire  to  express  my 
gratitude  for  it,  and  especially  for  the  generosity 
with  which  the  writer  has  given  us  of  himself.  It 
is  but  rarely  that  for  a  convito  like  this,  a  host  can 
be  found  who  will  draw  for  his  guests  the  wine  of 
price,  the  wine  from  the  inner  chamber.  My  own 
store  is  of  no  such  value,  but  I  am  moved  to  set  it 
forth:   I  feel  that  the  example  is  binding  upon  me." 

He  looked  down  at  his  companion,  Percy,  with 
a  hot  and  almost  shamed  feeling  of  tension,  glanced 
sideways  at  Althea's  face;  but  it  showed  nothing 
more  than  sympathetic  interest. 

"  The  point,"  continued  Mr,  Tm-nbull,  "  upon 
which  I  have  to  speak  is  one  upon  which  Mr. 
Hedgeley  touched  but  lightly:  he  put  aside  the 
historical  question,  the  inquiry  into  the  origins  of 
Browning's  ideas  on  love.  I  would  go  further,  I 
would  venture  to  say  that  it  matters  little  to  us 
where  he  got  them,  since  we  know  where  alone 
we  got  them — we,  the  men  and  woman  of  to-day, 
I   am   speaking   rashly   perhaps:     the   influence   of 


72  The   Browning   Society 

Robert  Browning  is  for  me  so  personal,  so  dramatic 
a  force,  that  in  thinking  of  it  my  own  experience 
becomes  a  universal.  I  may  well  be  wrong,  but  I 
cannot  believe  that  I  am  wrong,  in  saying  that  he 
beyond  all  other  poets  is  the  creator  of  our  modern 
world.  The  poets  of  the  past  have  spoken  much  to 
me  of  love.  First,  and  mainly  perhaps,  of  instinctive 
love — that  which  Browning,  too,  acknowledges  as 
"  the  obvious  human  bliss,"  needed  and  sought 
for  "  To  satisfy  life's  daily  thirst  With  a  thing  men 
seldom  miss."  They  have  spoken  also  in  more  re- 
flective and  more  uplifted  moods.  To  some  love  is 
a  dream ;  to  some  it  is  a  devotion.  I  do  not  despise 
such  conceptions,  or  the  beauty  born  of  them.  As 
long  as  we  are  men  we  shall  at  times  cherish  the 
vision  of  "a  shadowy  isle  of  bliss  Midmost  the 
beating  of  that  steely  sea,  Where  tossed  about  all 
hearts  of  men  must  be."  As  long  as  we  are  men, 
love  will  send  youth  on  quest  and  pilgrimage,  for 
the  sake  of  distant  or  half-mythical  Madonnas.  I 
do  not  claim  that  we  have  outgrown  either  of  these 
notions  of  love — the  idyllic  or  the  chivakic.  But 
in  the  mind  and  work  of  Browning  I  find  a  new, 
a  greater,  form  of  love.  It  includes  all  the  old  prim- 
itive colours  and  lights  in  one  rainbow.  It  arches 
the  whole  landscape  in  which  we  make  our  earthly 
journey.  It  reveals  life  as  dynamic  instead  of  static, 
spiritual  instead  of  sentimental, 

'■  Nothing  is  omitted  there.  Instinctive  love — 
Browning  forgets  least  of  all  poets,  the  body's  mean- 
ing and  glory.     He  knows  the  moth's  kiss  and  the 


The   Browning   Society  73 

bee's  kiss — the  old  measure  of  Women  and  Roses. 
He  knows  too  the  love  of  great  moments,  of  brief 
eternal  hours.  But  they  are  not  idyllic,  for  with  him 
love  is  never  an  escape  from  life.  It  is  always  a  part 
of  life,  the  chief  part  of  it,  that  part  to  which  all 
else,  in  our  own  experience  or  the  history  of  man- 
kind, is  but  an  approach,  a  climbing  of  steps.  It 
is  Earth's  returns 

"  For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise,  and  sin! 
Shut  them  m 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  restl 
Love  is  best. 

"  It  is  something  more  than  best : 

"  Ages  past  the  soul  existed, 

Here  an  age  'tis  resting  merely. 
And  hence  fleets  again  for  ages. 

While  the  true  end,  sole  and  single, 
It  stops  here  for  is,  this  love-way 
With  some  other  soul  to  mingle. 

"  But  if  we  believe  that  life  is  love  and  nothing 

else  to  speak  of,  what  then  must  we  say  of  love? 

Love  surely  cannot  be  anything  less  than  Hfe,  the 

whole  of  life,  and  the  highest  to  which  life  can  reach. 

Instinctive  it  may  be,  and  idyllic  too  and  chivalric, 

but  it  must  go  beyond  all  these  and  take  into  itself 

every  possible  communion  of  man  and  woman.    It 

must  be  an  intimate  personal  alliance  for  all  the  ends 

of  being. 

"  Oh!    I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine. 
Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart: 
You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine. 

See,  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  divine." 

{From  "  The  Twytnans,"  1911.) 


74  Amore   Altiero 


AMORE    ALTIERO 

Since  thou  and  I  have  wandered  from  the  highway 

And  found  with  hearts  reborn 
This  swift  and  unimaginable  byway 

Unto  the  hills  of  mom, 
Shall  not  our  love  disdain  the  unworthy  uses 

Of  the  old  time  outworn  ? 

I'll  not  entreat  thy  half  unwilling  graces 

With  humbly  folded  palms, 
Nor  seek  to  shake  thy  proud  defended  places 

With  noise  of  vague  alarms, 
Nor  ask  against  my  fortune's  grim  pursuing 

The  refuge  of  thy  arms, 

Thou'lt  not  withhold  for  pleasure  vain  and  cruel 

That  which  has  long  been  mine. 
Nor  overheap  with  briefly  burning  fuel 

A  fire  of  flame  divine. 
Nor  yield  the  key  for  life's  profaner  voices 

To  brawl  within  the  shrine. 

But  thou  shalt  tell  me  of  thy  queenly  pleasure 

All  that  I  must  fulfil, 
And  I'll  receive  from  out  my  royal  treasure 

What  golden  gifts  I  will, 
So  that  two  realms  supreme  and  undisputed 

Shall  be  one  kingdom  still. 


True  Thomas  75 

And  our  high  hearts  shall  praise  the  beauty  hidden 

In  starry-minded  scorn 
By  the  same  Lord  who  hath  His  servants  bidden 

To  seek  with  eyes  new-born 
This  swift  and  unimaginable  byway 

Unto  the  hills  of  mom. 


TRUE   THOMAS 

Queen,  when  we  kissed  beneath  the  Eildon  tree 
I  kissed  for  ever,  tide  me  weal  or  woe; 
The  broad  and  narrow  ways  lay  far  below; 
Among  the  fern  you  shook  your  bridle  free: 
We  dared  the  dark,  we  dared  the  roaring  sea, 
We  rode  for  Elfland — ah !  how  long  ago ! 
Body  and  soul  you  have  been  mine,  I  know. 
Body  and  soul  you  have  been  sure  of  me. 

Now  comes  the  end — yet  now  when  age  shall  cast 
Like  withered  leaves  into  the  mouldering  past 
The  Rhymer's  heart,  the  lips  that  kissed  and  sang, 
Still,  still  the  Elfin  soul  of  me  shall  flame 
To  find  the  land  wherefrom  your  beauty  came, 
The  road  whereon  that  night  your  bridle  rang. 


7^  William   the   Singer 

WILLIAM   THE    SINGER 

Temp.  Richard  II 

In  the  meantime  he  had  some  hours  to  spend  as 
he  pleased.    He  first  rode  straight  to  the  Tower,  and 
great  as  his  expectation  was,  it  was  in  no  way  dis- 
appointed.    He  had  a  strong  feeling  for  the  romance 
of  history,  and  here  in  one  long-anticipated  moment, 
as  he  cleared  the  eastern  end  of  Thames  Street, 
it  seemed  to  be  suddenly  embodied  before  his  eyes. 
The  broad  moat,  running  east  and  north  from  the 
angle  where  he  had  halted,  the  long  low  curtain- 
walls,   the  massive  river  gate  beneath,   the  draw- 
bridges   and    rounded    outworks    above — all    these, 
and    the    picturesque    confusion    of   them,    pleased 
him  greatly;    but  again  and  again  he  turned  from 
them  to  the  central  keep  that  dominated  them.    As 
he  saw  it  under  the  still  brightness  of  the  March 
morning,  with  the  high  straight  hues  of  its  white 
quoins  and  the  severe  round  arches  of  its  far-up 
windows,  shining  clear  through  a  faint  haze  of  blue 
smoke  from  the  buildings  below,  it  seemed  to  him 
to  be  infinitely  remote  from  the  splendours  and  the 
trivialities  of  modem  times:    it  was  dreaming  still 
of  the  grim  methodical  Norman  and  the  long-dead 
century   of  its   first   youth.    He   would   have   given 
much  to  enter;   but  to  be  repulsed  again,  and  here, 
was  more  than  he  could  risk. 
He  tore  himself  away  at  last  and  began  slowly 


William   the    Singer  77 

to  ascend  the  hill.  To  his  left,  on  the  slope  of  the 
high  green  bank  above  the  entrance  to  Tower  Street, 
stood  a  grey  stone  church,  surrounded  on  three  sides 
by  a  churchyard  of  unusual  extent  and  beautifully 
kept:  on  the  south  side  a  finely  carved  porch  with 
a  flight  of  stone  steps  came  right  down  upon  the 
street.  Here  again  was  antiquity  in  its  most  attractive 
form,  and  breathing  a  spirit  which  had  been  wanting 
even  to  the  White  Tower;  for  the  music  of  a  psalm, 
chanted  by  trained  voices  without  accompaniment, 
rolled  in  wave  after  wave  from  the  chancel  and  laid 
a  spell  like  that  of  memory  upon  the  listener  below. 

John  was  fundamentally  rehgious,  like  the  great 
mass  of  his  f eUow-countrymen ;  he  shared,  certainly, 
some  of  the  unorthodox  opinions  of  his  age,  he  had 
a  general  tendency  to  mistrust  the  clergy,  and  his 
boyhood  had  been  one  long  rebeUion  against  enforced 
attendance  at  church;  but  the  power  of  association 
had  all  the  time  been  binding  him  with  imperceptible 
bonds,  and  since  he  had  been  his  own  master  he  had 
come  to  find  a  new  pleasure  in  devotions  practised 
when  and  where  he  chose.  At  this  moment  the 
choice  was  not  in  doubt;  before  the  alternating 
roll  of  the  chant  had  gathered  itself  into  the  unison 
of  the  Gloria,  he  had  shpped  from  his  saddle,  climbed 
the  steps,  and  lai(^  his  hand  upon  the  iron  latchet 
of  the  porch  door. 

The  music  ceased,  and  he  entered.  The  interior 
of  the  church  was  massive  and  severe,  simply  an 
arcade  of  plain  round  piUars  and  a  bare  open  chan- 
cel:   the  first  glance  traversed  it  from  end  to  end. 


yS  William   the   Singer 

and  to  Marland's  great  surprise  it  was  entirely 
empty.  But  as  he  advanced  into  the  nave  he  heard 
faintly  the  sound  of  a  voice  reciting  prayers,  and 
perceived  at  the  same  moment  a  door  in  the  wall 
of  the  north  aisle.  By  this,  too,  he  stood  listening 
for  a  moment,  and  then  opened  it  quietly  during 
an  interval  of  silence.  He  had  no  sooner  done  so 
than  he  stopped  short  in  surprise;  he  seemed  to 
have  passed  under  some  sudden  illusion,  so  striking 
was  the  change  from  the  monastic  bareness  of 
the  church  itself  to  the  dim,  rich  splendour  of  the 
chapel  in  which  he  now  stood.  The  roof  was  of 
white  stone,  and  vaulted  plainly  after  the  Norman 
fashion,  but  the  arch  was  lofty  and  graceful;  the 
walls  were  covered  with  frescoes,  and  the  round- 
headed  windows  of  the  original  style  had  been  re- 
placed by  longer  pointed  lights  filled  with  exquisite 
stained  armorial  glass:  those  at  the  east  end  were 
deeply  recessed  behind  slender  groups  of  detached 
pillars,  rising  at  the  head  into  quadruple  mouldings 
of  great  beauty.  The  altar  itself  was  invisible, 
behind  the  Lenten  Veil;  but  from  the  altar  steps 
westwards  the  little  building  was  panelled  with 
the  finest  carved  woodwork,  now  dark  with  age; 
and  John  saw,  as  he  glanced  quickly  to  right  and 
left  of  the  door  by  which  he  st9od,  that  the  choir 
stalls,  elaborate  as  they  were,  bore  no  comparison 
with  the  magnificence  of  those  at  the  west  end, 
which  had  lofty  canopies,  reheved  with  gold,  and 
were  furnished  with  gilt  sconces  and  with  cushions 
and  footstools  of  the  richest  crimson  velvet. 


William   the    Singer  79 

To-day  the  canopies  were  all  unoccupied,  but  they 
seemed  hardly  to  offer  a  seat  to  a  chance  visitor.   On 
the  other  hand  the  nearest  choir-stall  was  vacant, 
and  one  of  the  clerks  made  a  sign  of  invitation. 
John  took  the  place  and  began  to  look  about  him. 
The  sense  of  splendour  was  heightened  as  his  eye 
dwelt  upon  every  detail  in  turn,   and  he  was  not 
unprepared   for   the   discovery   which   he   presently 
made,    that    the   two   central   canopies   facing   the 
altar  were  inlaid  with  small  plates  of  gold  on  which 
the  royal  arms  of  England  were  enamelled  in  colours. 
No  wonder  the  chapel  was  splendid,   since  it  was 
evidently   King  Richard's  own;    but  the  pride  of 
youth  was  hardly  abashed  by  this  reflection,   and 
in   a  few  moments  the  remembrance   of  his   own 
birth  and  possessions  was  stirring  John's  thoughts 
to  emulation,  or  at  least  to  imitation,  of  his  sover- 
eign lord's  magnificence:  he  resolved  to  enrich  his 
own  two  churches  by  the  addition  of  stained-glass 
windows,  and  decided  that  his  own  seats  should  be 
furnished  with  velvet.      Perhaps,  however,  crimson 
was  not  the  most  suitable  colour:  he  had  a  sense  of 
proportion,  and  besides,  he  liked  his  sumptuousness 
to  be  visible  at  the  second  glance  rather  than  the 
first:    it  seemed  to  him  to  make  just  the  difference 
between  ostentation  and  good  taste.   To  be  splendid 
for   himself   and   those   who   could   find   him   out — 
that  was  his  desire,  and  he  revelled  in  it,  only  me- 
chanically sharing  in  the  service  which   was   going 
on  around  him. 

But  presently  his  reverie  was  dispersed  and  he 


8o  William   the    Singer 

found  his  eyes  riveted  upon  a  face  opposite  to  him. 
It  was  that  of  one  of  the  singing  men,  a  tall,  dark, 
handsome  fellow,  who  sang  with  a  concentration  that 
marked  him  off  from  the  rest,  and  whose  features, 
when  in  repose,  had  an  expression  of  very  uncommon 
power  and  a  kind  of  sad  serenity.  Clearly,  as  John 
saw,  not  the  face  of  a  man  of  his  own  class:  it  was 
too  thin,  too  clever,  too  intent  upon  the  work  in 
hand:  yet,  whether  he  approved  or  no,  he  was  held 
by  the  grip  of  a  personality  which,  he  had  enough 
insight  to  suspect,  was  a  rarer  and  a  stronger  one 
than  his  own.  The  man  was  older  than  himself, 
and  his  thoughts  had  probably  nothing  in  common 
with  those  of  a  landed  gentleman:  but  there  were 
thoughts  there,  and  John  found  himself  again  and 
again  coming  back  to  wonder  what  they  were.  The 
mere  surmise  of  them  was  keeping  two  interesting 
churches  out  of  window-glass  and  velvet  hassocks. 

When  the  service  was  over  and  the  procession  left 
the  chapel,  John  followed  the  bidding  of  a  curiosity 
that  refused  to  depart  unsatisfied.  He  paced  slowly 
up  and  down  the  church,  keeping  watch  while  the 
priest  and  choristers  returned  by  ones  and  twos 
from  the  vestry  and  hurried  out  of  the  building. 
The  tall  dark  man  came  nearly  last,  and  there  was 
no  one  with  him:  he  was  dressed  very  plainly, 
with  a  weather-beaten  cloak  of  dark  grey  hanging 
from  rather  round  shoulders,  and  he  carried  in  his 
hand  a  bonnet  of  cloth  which  had  once  been  blue. 
Poor  he  evidently  was,  but  of  a  class  outside  John's 
experience:    for  he  seemed  to  have  nothing  about 


William   the   Singer  8i 

him  of  the  noble,  military,  clerical,  rustic,  or  servile 
elements  of  society.  Presumably  he  was  akin  to 
the  clerical,  but  there  was  an  outdoor  swing  in  his 
walk,  and  a  turn  of  his  head,  that  spoke  of  freedom 
and  even  of  recklessness.  He  showed  no  surprise 
at  seeing  Marland  directly  in  his  path  and  evidently 
about  to  speak  with  him. 

"  You  are  looking  for  me,  sir?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  rephed  John,  astonished  at  being  spoken 
to  first;  "  not  originally,  I  mean.  I  came  here  .  .  . 
for  a  different  reason."  The  other  looked  straight 
at  him  with  a  smile  of  intelligence.  "  So  did  I," 
he  said;  "  we  are  both  disappointed."  John  was 
still  more  surprised:  the  tone  was  courteous,  but  it 
might  have  been  that  of  an  equal. 

'•I  do  not  understand  you,"  he  rephed  more 
firmly ;  "  what  is  it  that  you  and  I  have  in  common  ?  ' ' 

"  Speech,"  said  the  other. 

"  If  that  is  all "  .  .  .  said  John,  reddening  at 
the  check. 

"  No,"  replied  the  stranger,  "  we  both  had  hope." 

"Hope?" 

"  To  see  the  king." 

John  looked  instinctively  towards  the  door  of  the 
chapel:  this  man's  voice  had  made  the  words  so 
living  that  he  felt  himself  for  an  instant  almost 
in  the  Presence.  The  moment  passed,  and  he  turned 
back  to  his  companion. 

"  But  I  came  here  by  chance,"  he  said. 

"  Then  I  am  wrong,"  replied  the  other,  "  and  sorry 
for  it."  He  moved  as  though  to  take  his  leave. 


82  William   the   Singer 

"  Why  are  you  sorry?  "  asked  John,  "  and  what 
did  you  expect  of  me?  " 

The  straight  look  met  him  again.  "  I  no  longer 
expect,  but  I  always  hope.  I  watch  them  come 
in  shoals  to  the  net:  all  young,  all  supple,  and 
shining," — he  seemed  to  glance  at  the  new  suit, 
— "  but  common  herring  every  one — nothing  big 
among  them — so  far." 

John  began  to  catch  his  meaning.  "  If  you  thought 
I  had  newly  come  to  Court,  you  were  not  so  wrong: 
only  if  I  am  to  serve  any  one,  it  is  not  the  king,  but 
his  brother." 

"  Ah!  "  said  the  stranger,  looking  thoughtfully 
at  him  but  speaking  almost  to  himself.  "  A  hard 
roe,  not  a  soft  one,  this  time:  but  are  they  not  all 
the  king's — every  fish  in  the  four  seas?  " 

"  Certainly  I  am  the  king's,  if  he  will  take  me." 
John's  head  went  up. 

"  Ay!  "  cried  his  companion  suddenly  with  a  kind 
of  poetic  fervour  that  embarrassed  John  but  held 
him  fast.  "  One  more  silver  belly,  if  the  net  will 
take  it!  But  where  among  all  these  is  the  dolphin 
for  the  day  of  shipwreck?  It  is  smooth  sailing  now 
and  pretty  sport  with  the  glittering  little  lords; 
but  when  the  squall  comes,  which  of  them  will  carry 
the  king  ashore  ?  I  go  up  and  down  England  looking 
for  a  man:  I  find  none,  there  or  here:  Hollands 
and  Mowbrays,  Rutlands  and  Scropes,  they  take 
their  pastime  between  their  sleep,  and  their  sleep 
between  their  pastimes,  like  the  gay  figures  on  a 
clock,  whose  only  sign  of  life  is  to  come  out  when 


William   the    Singer  83 

every  hour  strikes,  and  ride  their  little  round  without 
change  or  meaning." 

The  tone  was  sad  rather  than  angry,  but  John 
felt  a  bitterness  in  it  that  twisted  his  own  tongue. 

"  A  passage  of  arms  means  nothing  to  a  clerk," 
he  said,  "  but  it  means  a  good  deal  to  a  soldier." 

"  I  have  seen  war,"  said  the  other,  "  and  I  shall 
see  it  again;  but  for  what  war  do  these  lords  train 
themselves?  When  they  have  spent  the  treasure 
their  fathers  won  in  France,  they  will  seek  more  in 
England:  when  they  have  plundered  the  poor, 
they  will  scheme  to  sack  each  other:  they  live  by 
getting  wealth,  not  by  making  it." 

"  You  don't  touch  me  there,"  replied  John  with 
satisfaction.  "  My  property  is  my  own,  well  got 
and  well  kept:  I  do  my  duty  to  my  people,  and 
I  will  do  my  duty  to  the  king  when  my  time  comes." 

"  Will  you?  "  cried  the  other  eagerly;  "  will  you 
swear  it?  Come!  "  He  turned  towards  the  door  of 
the  royal  chapel,  which  the  sacristan  was  preparing 
to  lock,  and  John  followed  almost  against  his  own 
will.  He  had  the  shamefacedness  and  conven- 
tionality of  his  age,  but  there  were  no  witnesses 
here,  and  the  stranger  carried  him  away  by  the 
touch  of  romance  he  mingled  with  his  earnestness. 

They  passed  quickly  and  without  a  word  up  the 
length  of  the  chapel,  and  stopped  immediately  under 
the  Lenten  Veil.  The  singing-man  bent  down  and 
with  great  reverence  pushed  back  the  lower  edge  of 
the  drapery:  in  the  pavement  close  before  the  altar 
John  saw  a  plain  stone  with  a  large  Crusader's  cross 


84  William   the   Singer 

upon  it,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  cross  a  heart:  to 
right  and  left  were  carved  in  bold  letters  the  words, 
Cor  Ricardi  Cor  Leonis. 

"  What  is  a  kmg?  "  said  the  stranger  in  a  low 
voice;  "  what  but  a  sunrise  and  a  sunset:  a  day  in 
the  life  of  a  great  nation.  The  Lion's  Heart  was  a 
king  once:  but  with  him  it  has  been  night  these 
two  hundred  years.  It  is  morning  still  with  our 
Lord  Richard, — morning  with  the  dew  upon  it: 
there  has  been  no  such  promise  yet  in  any  kingdom 
under  the  rainbow  roof." 

He  spoke  passionately,  and  John  began  to  feel  an 
answering  emotion:  he  had  been  bred  in  the  chief 
centre  of  English  loyalty,  where  the  king  was  always 
right,  always  adored.  His  companion  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  and  he  did  not  resent  it.  Then 
the  stranger  fell  upon  his  knees,  drawing  John  down 
with  him. 

"  Make  your  vow  here,"  he  said,  "  that  in  what- 
ever company  you  may  be,  henceforth  so  long  as 
you  and  the  king  shall  both  live,  never  will  you 
take  rest  by  night  or  by  day  without  this  prayer  first 
spoken  aloud,  'God  save  Richard,  King  of  England.'  " 

John,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  stone  heart  below, 
took  the  vow  willingly  enough:  it  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  done  such  a  thing,  but  he  had 
heard  the  like  of  Chandos  and  Audley  and  other 
heroes  of  the  past.  For  a  moment  longer  he  remained 
kneehng,  to  collect  his  thoughts.  When  he  rose 
he  became  aware  that  his  companion  had  left  him, 
and  was  striding  rapidly  down  the  aisle. 


Gerusalemme    Irredenta  85 

He  followed  more  slowly,  and  when  he  reached 
the  door  found  the  church  entirely  deserted,  except 
by  the  sacristan,  who  was  still  waiting  patiently 
with  the  keys.  He  gave  the  old  man  a  piece  of  money, 
and  asked  him  who  was  that  who  had  just  gone  out. 

"  We  take  him  for  his  voice,  sir,  and  he  comes 
and  goes  as  he  likes.  My  lord  the  king  has  been 
pleased  to  notice  him  for  his  voice,  and  it  is  likely 
that  sets  him  up  a  little,  but  he  is  an  innocent  creature, 
sir." 

John  frowned:  the  apology  seemed  inappropriate. 
"  But  who  is  he?  "  he  asked,  rather  peremptorily. 

"  We  call  him  William,  sir,  but  I  don't  know  if 
that  be  his  name.  He  is  quite  harmless,  sir,  you 
understand." 

Outside  the  horses  were  waiting:  John  rode  away 
at  a  sharp  pace,  and  was  glad  to  be  in  the  sunshine 
again,  but  his  horizon  seemed  hardly  so  unclouded 
now.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  something  to  forget. 

{From  "  The  New  June,"  1907.) 


GERUSALEMME    IRREDENTA 

The  nine  days  which  he  spent  in  Jerusalem  John 
found  to  be  the  weariest  of  his  life.  The  way  of 
the  sight-seer  is  always  hard;  it  is  doubly  so  when 
a  continual  demand  is  made  not  only  on  his  atten- 
tion and  admiration,  but  on  the  highest  imaginative 
power,   the  deepest  emotion,   and  the  most  heroic 


86  Gerusalemme   Irredenta 

credulity  of  which  he  is  capable.  Many  of  the 
scenes  which  the  pilgrims  visited  were  beautiful, 
and  in  some  their  feelings  were  rightly  touched: 
but  the  true  moments  were  but  moments  in  long 
hours  of  standing  and  staring,  while  every  sense 
was  deadened  by  the  mechanical  patter  of  their 
dragomans  and  the  pitiless  hurry  in  which  they  were 
shepherded  from  one  to  another  of  the  innumerable 
holy  places.  Above  all,  John  never  forgot  the  misery 
of  the  three  almost  sleepless  nights  which  he  and 
his  companions  spent,  according  to  the  universal 
custom,  in  the  Church  of  the  Sepulchre.  The  filth 
and  squalor  surrounding  the  place,  the  insolence  of 
the  Moslem  officials  who  locked  them  in  at  night 
and  let  them  out  in  the  morning,  the  greed  and 
triviality  of  the  friars  who  acted  as  showmen  of 
the  most  sacred  spot  on  earth,  and  the  ceaseless 
quarrels  of  the  nine  Christian  sects  who  inhabited 
it — all  these  were  bad,  but  they  were  not  the  worst. 
Depressing  beyond  everything  else  was  the  feeling 
of  utter  disillusionment,  the  sense  of  groping  in 
an  underworld  of  frauds  and  counterfeits,  where 
even  the  little  that  might  really  have  been  priceless 
was  lost  among  monstrous  fictions,  or  heaped  over 
with  tawdry  ornament. 

It  was  a  very  dispirited  company  that  sat  in  the 
upper  chamber  of  the  Hospital  on  the  last  night  of 
their  stay.  The  room  had  been  given  up  for  their 
sole  use  by  the  courtesy  of  the  Prior  of  St.  John, 
but  they  had  hitherto  spent  very  little  time  in  it: 
this  evening,  when  they  had  finally  escaped  from 


Gerusalemme   Irredenta  87 

their  guides,  and  had  a  few  hours  left  to  themselves, 
they  were  sitting  together  in  front  of  a  small  fire 
and  taking  a  very  sober  retrospect  of  the  week. 

"  If  you  ask  me,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  the  Steward. 
"  I  say,  under  correction  of  Dom  Nicholas,  that  the 
whole  thing  is  httle  better  than  a  peep-show  at  a  fair." 

"  Don't,"  said  Edmund  in  a  low  voice:  he  laid  a 
hand  appealingly  on  Sir  Hugh's  knee,  and  his  eyes 
glistened  in  the  dim  candle-light  almost  as  if  there 
were  tears  in  them. 

Nicholas  looked  at  him  with  great  affection:  then 
moved  his  chair  briskly,  and  took  up  the  Steward's 
challenge  in  as  cheerful  a  tone  as  was  possible  with- 
out arousing  suspicion. 

"  I  know  what  Sir  Hugh  means,"  he  began,  "  but 
I  confess  that  I  for  one  am  very  glad  to  have  been 
here.  We  have  seen  many  things  that  we  shall 
never  forget." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Sir  Thomas  with  approval, — 
"  many  things  that  were  well  worth  seeing." 

"  I  don't  know  what  they  are,"  rejoined  Sir  Hugh; 
"the  only  thing  I  cared  to  see,  these  infidel  dogs 
refused  to  show  me.  They  say  there  are  a  thousand 
lamps  always  kept  burning  in  that  big  mosque  of 
theirs:   I  should  Hke  to  have  counted  them." 

Sir  Thomas  continued  to  make  the  best  of  his 
expedition.  "  I  daresay  those  lamps  are  just  as 
visible  outside  as  inside:  about  as  genuine  as  the 
rock  from  which  Mohammed  ascended  into  heaven." 

"  The  mosque  is  real  at  any  rate,"  persisted  Sir 
Hugh,  "  and  they  ought  to  show  it." 


88  Gerusalemme    Irredenta 

"What  has  impressed  you  most,  Sir  Walter?" 
Nicholas  asked  the  Chamberlain. 

"The  river  Jordan,  I  think:  I  brought  away  a 
jarful  for  the  christening  of  my  next  grandchild." 

"You  have  forgotten  the  walls,"  said  his  lord; 
"  you  remember  we  thought  the  view  of  them  very 
fine  from  outside." 

"  The  Church  at  Bethlehem,"  added  John,  "  seemed 
to  me  the  most  beautiful  building  I  had  seen  since 
we  left  Venice." 

"  But  none  of  those  things,"  argued  Sir  Hugh, 
"  are  what  we  came  to  see:  none  of  them  are  in 
Jerusalem." 

"  N-no,"  said  Edmund  quickly,  his  eyes  lighting 
up  for  a  moment,  "  b-but  Godfrey  de  Bouillon's 
sword  is,  and  that  is  real  enough." 

"  It  was  once,"  murmured  the  monk  half  to 
himself. 

"Come,  Nicholas,"  said  Tom,  "you  haven't  told 
us  your  own  choice  yet:  you  are  not  one  of  the 
disappointed  ones?  " 

Nicholas  looked  up,  and  John  saw  that  his  face 
had  taken  the  frank  impenetrable  expression  which 
generally  served  as  a  mask  for  his  ironical  mood. 

"  Disappointed?  not  I,"  he  replied;  "  I  thought 
everything  quite  genuine — transparently  genuine: 
and  yesterday  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  Holy  Land 
itself." 

Tom  looked  puzzled.  "Yesterday? — I  thought 
you  were  with  us." 

"  I  was  at  the  Place  of  Wailing." 


Gerusalemme   Irredenta  89 

"  So  were  we,"  said  Tom,  "  but  I  saw  no  view 
— except  a  view  of  some  miserable  Jews  howling." 

"  I  liked  those  Jews,"  Edmund  remonstrated; 
"  they  wail  outside  the  wall  because  if  they  went 
into  the  mosque  they  might  tread  upon  the  place 
where  the  Holy  of  Holies  used  to  stand,  without 
knowing  it." 

Tom  ignored  this  plea,  "  By  the  way,"  he  said 
to  Nicholas,  "  I  meant  to  ask  you  if  you  knew  what 
it  was  they  were  groaning  into  the  wall." 

"  It  was  the  seventy-fourth  Psalm." 

The  words  seemed  to  convey  no  very  exact  in- 
formation to  any  of  the  company,  except  perhaps 
to  William  the  Singer,  who  leaned  forward  to  listen 
from  his  place  outside  the  circle. 

Nicholas  turned  to  John.  "  My  Lord  knows  it 
better  as  Ut  quid  Deus,"  he  said,  "  but  it  is  worth 
hearing  even  in  English."  He  began  to  recite  it 
in  a  quiet  tone  that  had  more  sadness  than  passion 
in  it. 

"  O  God,  wherefore  art  thou  absent  from  us  so  long:  why  is 
thy  -^vrath  so  hot  against  the  sheep  of  thy  pasture? 

''  O  think  upon  thy  congregation,  whom  thou  hast  purchased 
and  redeemed  of  old. 

"  Think  upon  the  tribe  of  thine  inheritance,  and  Mount 
Sion,  wherein  thou  hast  dwelt." 

He  paused,  and  there  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"  It  has  a  fine  sound,"  said  Sir  Thomas  at  last, 
"  but  it  doesn't  come  well  from  the  Jews.  They 
reaped  what  they  sowed,  and  then  complain  of  it. 
I  hate  that." 


90  Gerusalemme   Irredenta 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  monk,  "  we  naturally  hate 
and  despise  Jews  almost  as  much  as  we  hate  and 
despise  our  baser  selves.  But  they  have  their  use: 
they  have  expressed  national  repentance  in  a  very 
convenient  form." 

"  Convenient  for  those  who  need  it,"  said  Sir 
Thomas,  "  but  no  other  people  have  ever  rejected 
their  Redeemer." 

•'  No,"  replied  Nicholas,  "  we  will  not  compare 
our  case  with  theirs.  Perhaps  I  did  not  mean  to 
say  '  convenient.'  " 

The  irony  entered  deep  into  John's  soul:  he  under- 
stood, if  no  one  else  did,  the  tremendous  accusation 
that  lay  behind  the  plain  words  and  simple  tone; 
how  could  he  endure  to  sit  by  in  silence  and  hear 
his  boy-lord  blunder  into  an  argument,  which,  as  he 
knew  only  too  well,  needed  very  wary  fighting. 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  quite  taken  Nicholas's 
point,"  he  broke  in, — "  not  that  we  need  discuss  it 
here,  but  I  know  that  he  has  a  fixed  idea  about 
the  condition  of  England  just  now:  he  thinks  the 
ruling  class  are  oppressive  and  lawless  and  revengeful. 
He  seems  to  me  to  forget  that  there  are  times  when 
a  man  must  strike,  and  strike  hard,  too,  if  he  is 
to  do  his  duty  at  all.  But  we  need  not  talk  about 
it  now, — it  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  country." 

Tom  saw  no  reason  for  cutting  the  argument 
short — it  rather  interested  him.  "  I  daresay  there 
is  something  in  what  he  says,  John,"  he  remarked; 
"  you  and  I  have  seen  some  pretty  hard  cases  lately. 
But  times  will  mend  soon;  and  if  you  won't  mind  my 


Gcrusalemme    Irredenta  91 

saying  so,  Nicholas,  I  think  you  mustn't  expect  us 
to  take  so  clerical  a  view  as  you  do  of  these  matters." 
"Forgive  me,"  replied  the  monk;  "it  is  the  wail- 
ing of  those  poor  Jews  that  has  got  into  my  head. 

"  '  O  deliver  not  the  soul  of  thy  turtle-dove  unto  the  multi- 
tude of  the  enemies,  and  forget  not  the  congregation  of  the 
poor  for  ever. 

"'Look  upon  the  covenant;  for  all  the  earth  is  full  of 
darkness  and  cruel  habitations. 

"  '  Forget  not  the  voice  of  thine  enemies:  the  presumption 
of  them  that  hate  thee  increaseth  ever  more  and  more.'  " 

Sir  Thomas  reddened :  the  point  was  plain  enough 
now,  and  he  thought  his  chaplain  was  pressing  him 
too  far. 

"  My  dear  Nicholas,"  he  began,  with  some  attempt 
at  severity,  "  you  should  remember  that  if  you 
love  England,  so  do  we ;  and  some  of  us  feel  strongly 
that  the  real  patriot  is  the  man  who  believes  the 
best  of  his  country." 

"Ah!  "  replied  the  monk  in  the  candid  tone  of 
one  forced  to  an  admission,  "  certainly  the  Jewish 
patriots  never  did  that:  they  knew  the  worst,  and 
could  only  hope  the  best,  of  theirs." 

John  made  an  impatient  movement  at  this  renewal 
of  the  attack.  Sir  Thomas  misinterpreted  the  gesture 
as  agreeing  with  his  own  thought. 

"  I  cannot  see,"  he  repHed  to  Nicholas,  "  why  you 
keep  dragging  in  the  Jews.  Their  history  is  very 
good,  of  course,  for  clerical  purposes — for  teaching 
and  preaching  and  that  sort  of  thing,  and  we  know 
that  it  was  written  for  our  edification;  but  as  a 
matter  of  record  the  Jews  themselves  seem  to  me 


92  Gerusalemme    Irredenta 

to  come  very  badly  out  of  it.  And  whatever  they 
may  have  been  once,  you  cannot  be  serious  in  com- 
paring them  with  us — now.  Look  at  our  wealth, 
our  dominions,  our  famous  battles  and  naval  vic- 
tories,— look  at  our  position  in  Europe " 

"  Think  of  our  beautiful  forests,"  Edmund  chimed 
in,  "  and  all  our  castles  and  cathedrals." 

"  Besides,"  added  his  brother,  with  an  argument- 
ative rise  in  the  pitch  of  his  tone,  "  how  can  the 
Jews  of  to-day  understand  anything  at  all  of  pat- 
riotism when  they  don't  own  an  acre  of  land:  they 
have  no  country." 

"  But  they  seek  one  to  come." 

The  deep  tones  fell  upon  the  altercation  and 
silenced  it,  as  if  by  irresistible  authority  :  on  the 
outer  edge  of  the  circle  stood  WiUiam  the  Singer, 
of  whose  very  presence  every  one  had  been  ob- 
livious. As  they  now  turned  and  looked  at  him  in 
astonishment  he  seemed  to  be  changed — the  same, 
and  yet  wholly  changed,  as  a  wandering  king  might 
be  who  should  suddenly  reveal  himself  without  bodily 
putting  off  his  disguise.  His  dark  eyes  looked  be- 
yond the  company  before  him  with  a  sombre  glow 
in  their  depths :  his  right  hand  was  half-raised,  half- 
out-stretched,  and  his  head  bent  a  little  forward,  as 
if  he  were  speaking  to  some  one  too  far  distant  to 
hear  his  voice  but  too  near  his  heart  for  silence  to  be 
any  longer  possible. 

"  You  that  are  lords  of  England  and  masters  of 
manhood,  for  what  will  you  sell  the  birthright  of 
your  sons?     For  a  Uttle  earth,  ye  that  have  earth 


Gerusalemme   Irredenta  95 

enough:  for  a  little  gold,  ye  that  have  gold  already: 
for  one  more  cup  of  wine  before  the  lights  go  out 
— wine  of  oppression,  wine  of  hatred,  wine  of  anger, 
red  wine  of  strength  without  softness  and  of  fire 
without  comfort.  What  think  ye  to  leave  behind 
you?  Kingdoms  of  dust,  cities  and  walls  of  dust: 
dust  for  the  hungry,  dust  for  the  thirsty,  dust  for 
the  portion  of  all  your  children's  children.  O  Jeru- 
salem, dream  of  the  world,  visit  now  the  eyes  of 
these  men,  that  they  may  love  thee  and  live.  For 
the  folk  and  realm  that  serveth  not  thee  shall  perish : 
yea,  those  heathen  men  shall  be  destroyed  by  wilder- 
ness. But  the  sons  of  them  that  made  thee  low 
shall  come  low  unto  thee,  and  all  they  that  despised 
thee  shall  worship  the  steps  of  thy  feet,  and  they 
shall  call  thee  the  city  of  the  Lord,  the  Zion  of  the 
Holy  One  of  Israel.  Whereas  thou  hast  been  for- 
saken and  hated  so  that  there  was  none  that  passed 
by  thee,  God  shall  make  thee  an  eternal  excellency* 
a  joy  of  many  generations.  He  shall  also  make 
thy  officers  peace  and  thine  exactors  rightfulness. 
Violence  shall  no  more  be  heard  in  thy  land,  neither 
destroying  nor  defiling  within  thy  coasts,  but  Health 
shall  occupy  thy  walls  and  thy  gates  Praising." 

His  voice  trembled  to  the  close  with  so  tender 
and  self-forgetful  a  passion  that  John,  who  knew  it 
of  old,  felt  an  unreasonable  weakness  blind  his  eyes 
for  a  moment.  His  companions  were  all  moved, 
each  in  his  own  degree  of  sensitiveness:  it  was 
for  Sir  Thomas  to  relieve  the  general  discomfort. 

"  Wilham,"  he  said,  with  a  sternness  half  intended 


94  Froissart 

for  his  own  encouragement,  "  I  think  you  have  for- 
gotten yourself:  we  shall  be  glad  to  see  you  again 
when  you  have  slept  off  your  excitement." 

The  singer  went  out  quietly  as  if  of  his  own 
motion.  At  the  door  he  turned  and  bowed  with  a 
simple  dignity  which  made  matters  worse  rather 
than  better  for  those  who  remained.  The  Controller 
of  the  Household  rose  and  kicked  his  chair  out  of 
his  way.  "  Half  Lollard  and  half  madman,  I  should 
say,"  he  growled  to  his  neighbour,  Sir  Walter. 

"  I  thought  they  were  one  and  the  same  thing," 
replied  the  Chamberlain,  and  added  in  a  lower  voice, 
"  I  never  understood  why  they  brought  the  fellow." 

John  overheard  him.  "  It  was  my  doing,"  he  said 
fiercely:  he  did  not  know  with  whom  he  was  most 
angry. 

{From  "  The  New  June,"  1907.) 


FROISSART 

THE  FIRST  PHASE 

"  This  noble  reahn  of  England,"  said  the  Earl  of 
Salisbury,  "  hath  been  a  long  season  in  triumphant 
flower."  The  words  were  spoken  five  hundred  years 
ago,  and  in  every  generation  since  then.  Englishmen 
have  delighted  to  find  the  colour  and  splendour  of 
that  flower  still  glowing  freshly  in  the  Chronicles 
of  Sir  John  Froissart.  The  time  deserved  a  lasting 
record,  and  the  Earl  of  Foix,  who  had  the  right  to 


Froissart  95 

an  opinion,  spoke  plainly  to  our  author  of  his  oppor- 
tunity, "  saying  to  me  how  the  history  that  I  had 
begun  should  hereafter  be  more  praised  than  any 
other;  and  the  reason,  he  said,  why,  was  this;  how 
that  in  lifty  years  past  there  had  been  done  more 
marvellous  deeds  of  arms  in  the  world,  than  in  three 
hundred  years  before  that."  Many  histories  have 
been  praised  since  then,  and  they  have  recorded 
many  deeds  of  arms,  some  perhaps  as  marvellous 
as  Cressy  or  Poitiers;  but  this  is  likely  enough  to 
keep  its  place  among  them  all,  for  its  truth  is  not  a 
matter  of  dates,  and  it  differs  from  all  mere  records 
as  widely  as  a  forest  in  leaf  differs  from  a  timber- 
yard.  Nothing  here  is  dry,  nothing  dead:  in  the  hall 
we  see  the  lords  and  bishops  at  their  Christmas 
dinner,  the  minstrels  playing  and  singing,  "  the 
knights  and  squires  of  honour  going  up  and  down, 
and  talking  of  arms  and  of  love  ";  in  the  battle-field 
the  hedges  and  dykes,  the  moated  abbey  with  the 
minster  among  the  trees,  or  the  "  little  windmill 
hill  ";  in  the  church  the  "  goodly  hearse  and  well- 
ordered  "  with  the  torches  round  it  burning  night 
and  day,  and  the  dead  lord's  banners  before  the 
High  Altar.  Everything  is  seen  :  sometimes  in  a 
picture,  as  when  "  at  the  foot  of  the  castle  they 
mounted  on  their  horses  and  so  rode  away,"  or  when 
"  the  king  of  England  stood  on  the  forepart  of  his 
ship  apparelled  in  a  black  jacket  of  velvet,  and  he 
wore  on  his  head  a  bonnet  of  black  cloth,  the  which 
became  him  right  well;  and  he  was  there  so  joyous 
as  he  never  was  seen":    sometimes  in  drama,  as 


^6  Froissart 

when  the  young  king  of  France  irritates  the  old 
Constable  by  his  childish  eagerness,  or  the  great 
Earl,  half  in  anger,  half  in  ignorance,  kills  his  only 
son. 

Froissart's  first  volume  was  an  account  of  the 
battle  of  Poitiers;  and,  though  lost  in  its  separate 
form,  the  substance  of  it  is  no  doubt  incorporated  in 
the  Chronicles  as  we  now  possess  them.  It  might 
well  be  vividly  and  picturesquely  written,  for  at 
the  Court  of  Edward  III.,  he  was  able  to  meet  and 
question  the  very  men  who  had  borne  the  brunt  of 
that  day's  work,  and  he  was  a  favoured  guest  at 
Berkhamstead,  in  the  house  of  the  Black  Prince  him- 
self. His  admiration  for  the  character  and  achieve- 
ments of  the  English  is  flattering  to  our  national 
pride,  and  we  may  believe  that  it  was  based  upon 
a  fair  judgment  of  what  he  saw  and  heard;  but  the 
fact  that  Queen  Philippa  was  his  kindest  patron 
and  a  native  of  his  own  Hainault,  undoubtedly 
added  somethmg  to  the  colouring;  for  many  years 
afterwards  he  saw  the  Court  of  England  through 
a  golden  haze  of  personal  feeling.  But  he  was  at 
least  as  impartial  as  an  English  writer  would  have 
been,  and  he  gives  solid  and  abundant  reasons  for 
his  preferences.  His  portrait  of  Queen  Philippa  is 
to  this  day  undimmed  by  any  adverse  criticism, 
"  Tall  and  upright  was  she,  wise,  gay,  humble,  pious, 
liberal  and  courteous,  decked  and  adorned  in  her 
time  with  all  noble  virtues,  beloved  of  God  and  of 
mankind;  and  so  long  as  she  lived  the  kingdom  of 
England  had  favour,  prosperity,  honour,  and  every 


Froissart  97 

sort  of  good  fortune."  And  whatever  flaws  old  age 
may  have  brought  to  light  in  the  character  of  Edward 
III.,  in  the  days  when  Froissart  knew  and  admired 
him  he  was  a  king  indeed.  At  Sluys,  "  in  the  flower 
of  his  youth,  he  showed  himself  a  noble  knight  of 
his  own  hand."  At  Cressy  "  he  rode  from  rank  to 
rank,  desiring  every  man  to  take  heed  that  day  to 
his  right  and  honour.  He  spake  it  so  sweetly,  and 
with  so  good  countenance  and  merry  cheer,  that  all 
such  as  were  discomfited  took  courage  in  the  saying 
and  hearing  of  him."  And  in  the  flush  of  unhoped-for 
victory,  "  the  king  would  have  that  no  man  should  be 
proud  or  make  boast,  but  every  man  humbly  to 
thank  God."  The  Black  Prince  too  in  his  youth, 
before  disease  and  hardships  dragged  him  down, 
was  the  true  son  of  such  a  father,  "  worthy  to  guard 
a  realm."  In  battle  he  was  "  courageous  and  cruel 
as  a  lion;  he  took  great  pleasure  to  fight  and  to 
chase  his  enemies";  but  when  he  knew  that  the 
greatest  triumph  of  the  age  was  safely  his,  and  John 
of  France  sat  as  a  prisoner  at  his  table,  "  always 
the  prince  served  before  the  king,  as  humbly  as  he 
could  ";  and  he  cheered  his  fallen  enemy  with  such 
exquisite  courtesy  and  sincere  offer  of  friendship, 
that  even  the  French  knights,  sitting  weary  and 
wounded  at  that  bitter  feast,  began  to  murmur 
among  themselves  "  how  that  the  prince  had  spoken 
nobly,  and  that  by  all  estimation  he  should  prove  a 
noble  man,  if  God  send  him  life,  and  to  persevere  in 
such  good  fortune."  In  the  end  God  sent  him  neither 
long  life  not  such  good  fortune,  but  that  one  summer 

D 


9^  Froissart 

was  enough  to  place  him  apart  as  a  figure  of  heroic 
splendour  in  the  memory  and  imagination  of  his 
countrymen. 

And  it  was  not  the  princes  only  of  England  who 
moved  Froissart  to  enthusiasm;  we  read  with  an 
even  greater  and  nearer  pleasure  his  praise  of  the 
men-of-arms  and  archers  who  did  the  hardest  of 
the  marching  and  fighting;  they  were,  to  his  mind, 
ideal  soldiers;  ready  and  orderly  before  the  battle, 
cool  and  unabashed  in  the  face  of  tremendous  odds, 
self-restrained  in  the  dangerous  first  moment  of 
success;  generous  and  trustful  in  ransoming  their 
prisoners,  to  whom  "  they  made  good  cheer,"  and 
would  "  let  them  go,  all  only  on  their  promise  of 
faith  and  truth  to  return  again  with  their  ransoms." 
Such  courtesy,  he  says,  was  not  to  be  found  among 
the  Germans,  nor  such  steadfastness  among  the 
Spaniards:  as  to  the  French  he  gives  no  direct 
opinion,  but  puts  into  the  mouth  of  the  Flemings 
a  sharp  saying,  "  We  think  they  will  not  pass  into 
England  this  year,  for  the  realm  of  England  is  not 
so  easy  to  be  won." 

Here  then  will  be  found  not  only  history,  tragedy, 
comedy,  fairy  tale,  and  romance,  in  a  delightful 
medley,  but  many  curious  parallels  between  our 
own  and  other  times,  and  some  passages  still  more 
suggestive,  bearing  on  problems  which  belong  to 
the  life  of  man  and  do  not  really  change  with  the 
passing  of  centuries.  From  the  beginning  we  shall 
be  struck  with  the  evident  persistence  of  national 
types  of  character;   the  coolness  of  the  Anglo-Saxon 


Froissart  99 

in  fight  was  not  more,  nor  less,  conspicuous  "  down 
among  the  vines  "  at  Poitiers,  than  in  the  squares 
at  Waterloo;  Cressy,  where  the  archers  faced  a 
horde  of  yelling  enemies,  and  "  stirred  not  for  all 
that,"  was  the  very  counterpart  of  Omdurman;  and 
the  Englishmen  who  "  shot  so  wholly  together  "  at 
Aljubarota  were  the  true  forefathers  of  the  gunners 
at  Santiago  and  Manila  Bay,  before  whom  the 
Spaniards  were  once  more,  for  all  their  pride  and 
fierceness,  "  discomfited  without  recovery."  Some 
men's  ideas  on  the  invasion  of  England  are  still  what 
they  were  in  the  time  of  Charles  VI.  and  of  the  first 
Napoleon;  it  is  still  "  the  opinion  of  divers,  that  if 
they  might  arrive  all  together  in  England,  where 
they  intended  to  land,  they  should  sore  abash  the 
country  ";  the  comment  is  still  true,  "  and  so  they 
should,  without  doubt,"  and  truer  still  the  Duke  of 
Berry's  unpopular  remark,  that  "  though  we  be  now 
a  thousand  and  five  hundred  ships,  yet  before  we 
come  there  we  shall  not  be  three  hundred;  then 
behold  what  peril  we  should  put  ourselves  in!  " 

In  these  days  we  joust  no  longer,  but  still  "  for 
the  great  desire  that  we  have  to  come  to  the  know- 
ledge of  noble  gentlemen,  strangers,  as  well  on  the 
frontiers  of  the  realm  of  France  as  elsewhere  of  far 
countries,"  we  send  cricketers  to  Australia,  and 
football  teams  to  Paris;  and  when  the  athletes  of 
Harvard  or  the  oarsmen  of  Cornell  come  three 
thousand  miles  over-sea  to  meet  us  on  our  own 
ground  we  are  "  right  joyful  of  their  high  courage 
and  enterprise  ";  we  watch  the  contest  day  by  day. 


loo  Froissart 

as  our  ancestors  watched  the  lists  at  St.  Ingle vere, 
marking  the  score  as  man  after  man  comes  out 
"  ready  to  answer  "  when  his  name  is  called,  and 
we  understand  with  a  perfect  understanding  the 
feelings  with  which  those  sportsmen  of  five  hundred 
years  ago,  still  aching  from  hard  knocks,  departed 
"  in  courteous  manner "  from  their  antagonists, 
and  "  thanked  them  greatly  for  their  pastime." 

There  is  in  truth  more  of  the  modern  than  the 
antiquated  in  Froissart,  and  the  better  we  know  him 
the  more  we  shall  reaUse  this,  and  understand  and 
admire  the  age  in  which  he  Hved.  It  was  the  age  of 
cliivalry;  a  word  of  much  confusion,  but  one  worth 
considering  with  Froissart's  help ;  for  to  him  it  stood 
neither  for  a  narrow  and  exaggerated  view  of  the 
position  of  women,  nor  for  a  fantastic  love  of  mere 
adventure;  it  was  nothing  sentimental,  high-flown, 
or  unreal,  but  a  plain  rule  of  life :  and  we  may  remem- 
ber that  he  learned  it  chiefly  among  Englishmen, 
the  most  practical  people  in  Europe.  The  fourteenth, 
like  the  nineteenth  and  all  other  centuries,  was  cursed, 
and  blessed,  with  war.  Blessed,  because  contest 
being  the  law  of  this  material  world,  where  order 
must  depend  ultimately  on  force,  it  is  natural  and 
right  for  man  to  love  fighting  as  he  loves  the  sense 
of  Hfe,  and  the  virtues  of  the  soldier  are  the  most 
desirable  of  all:  cursed,  because  the  domination  of 
the  animal  in  us  is  a  danger  always  to  be  dreaded, 
as  a  violation  of  man's  nature  and  the  destruction 
of  his  hopes.  Now  in  that  age  the  Holy  Church 
herself  was  militant,  and  the  question  of  the  absolute 


Froissart  loi 

wrongfulness  of  war,  which  weighs  so  hea\'ily  upon 
the  modern  world,  was  perhaps  never  even  raised; 
but  if  it  had  been  pressed  upon  them  as  it  has  been 
upon  us,  we  may  be  sure  that  Froissart  and  those 
among  whom  he  lived  would  have  wondered  how 
an}-  one  could  so  hastily  deny  that  man  may  live 
happily  and  honourably  in  a  world  of  arms.  To  know 
his  answer,  we  have  only  to  mark  what  are  the 
characters  he  loved:  the  brave,  such  as  those  "  noble 
jousters  "  Sir  John  d'Ambreticourt  and  Sir  Reginald 
de  Roye,  who  "  feared  neither  pain  nor  death," 
knowing  that  these  are  the  conditions  of  the  game, 
and  not  its  worst  possibilities;  the  faithful,  such  as 
the  French  knights  and  squires  at  Poitiers,  "  who, 
though  their  masters  departed,  yet  had  rather  have 
died  than  have  had  any  reproach,"  and  so  died 
accordingly ;  the  victorious  king,  who  would  have  no 
man  proud,  but  humbly  to  thank  God;  the  prince, 
who  loved  and  served  his  conquered  enemy;  the 
men  of  honour,  who  scorned  to  mistrust  or  imprison 
their  captives;  the  soldiers,  who  wept  to  see  their 
own  general  beheading  their  enemies  in  cold  blood. 
For  much  as  he  loved  courage,  Froissart  loved 
gentleness  more:  he  is  never  squeamish  over  the 
necessities  of  war,  but  cruelty  he  cannot  pass  by, 
even  in  his  great  and  admirable  patron  the  Earl  of 
Foix;  and  over  the  sack  of  Limoges  he  cries  aloud: 
"  There  was  not  so  hard  a  heart,  an  if  he  had  any 
remembrance  of  God,  but  that  wept  piteously  for 
the  great  mischief  that  they  saw  before  their  eyes; 
for  more  than  three  thousand  men,   women,   and 


I02  Froissart 

children  were  slain  and  beheaded  that  day;  God 
have  mercy  upon  their  souls,  for  I  trow  they  were 
martyrs."  He  was  of  the  mind  of  Sir  John  de  Vienne 
and  his  companions,  who  would  "  endure  as  much 
pain  as  ever  knights  did,  rather  than  consent  that 
the  poorest  lad  in  the  town  should  have  to  bear  any 
more  evil  than  the  greatest  of  us  all  " ;  and  of  Eustace 
de  St.  Pierre,  who  thought  that  "  great  mischief  it 
should  be,  to  suffer  to  die  such  people  as  be  in  this 
town,  when  there  is  a  means  to  save  them  " — by 
giving  his  own  life  for  theirs. 

By  these  and  many  such  passages  Froissart  has 
shown  us  not  merely  his  own  ideal,  but  the  ideal  of 
his  age;  for  he  learned  from  the  knights  of  England 
and  France  that  which  he  wrote,  and  that  which 
he  wrote  was  in  turn  read  and  approved  by  them. 
For  them,  as  for  Nelson,  to  be  fighting  was  to  be 
"  in  the  full  tide  of  happiness,"  and  I  do  not  doubt 
that  their  descendants,  for  some  generations  yet, 
will  feel  the  same  stirring  of  the  blood.  It  will  be 
well  if  they  will  frankly  own  to  it,  taking  care  that 
at  the  same  time  they  keep  alive  the  soldierly  in- 
stincts of  discipline,  generosity,  loyalty,  and  fair 
play;  that  the  new  men-of-arms,  like  the  old,  look 
with  sympathy  on  all  human  fortitude,  and  with 
tenderness  on  all  human  suffering:  that  they  learn, 
like  their  ancestors,  to  fight  without  hatred,  to 
conquer  without  insolence,  and  to  meet  death  without 
terror;  to  think  of  honour  as  the  true  self-interest, 
and  of  nobility  as  the  right  to  serve. 

{From  "  Stories  from  Froissart,"  1898.) 


Froissart  103 

FROISSART 

THE  LAST  PHASE 

Froissart  is,  at  the  end  of  his  life,  a  historian  who 
has  learned  both  impartiality  and  discretion;  he 
will  not  openly  take  sides  in  a  quarrel  of  the  great: 
also  he  is  one  who  is  not  easily  startled,  for  he  has 
seen  that  "  the  fortunes  of  this  world  are  marvellous," 
and  "  that  that  shall  be,  shall  be."  But  this  is  not 
to  say  that  experience  or  custom  have  deadened 
Ms  feelings  or  debased  that  gentle  and  enthusiastic 
philosophy  which  made  him  so  charming  a  companion 
in  the  days  when  the  world  of  chivalry  was  young. 
He  makes  but  little  direct  comment,  but  he  throws 
over  the  later  part  of  his  Enghsh  history  an  atmos- 
phere which  is  more  unforgettable  than  any  words. 
"  Such  miscliievousness  fell  in  those  days  upon 
great  lords  of  England."  "  This  King  Richard 
reigned  king  of  England  twenty-two  years  in  great 
prosperity,  holding  great  estate  and  seignory:  I  was 
in  his  court  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  year  together, 
and  he  made  me  good  cheer,  because  that  in  my  youth 
I  was  clerk  and  servant  to  the  noble  King  Edward  the 
Third  his  grandfather,  and  with  my  lady  Philippa 
of  Hainault,  queen  of  England,  his  grandam:  where- 
fore I  am  bound  to  pray  to  God  for  his  soul,  and  with 
much  sorrow  I  write  of  his  death:  but  because  I 
have  continued  this  history,  therefore  I  write  thereof 


104  Froissart 

to  follow  it."  These  words  are  the  last  echo  of  the 
thought  that  has  been  haunting  us  all  through, 
from  the  moment  when  we  heard  how  Queen  Phil- 
ippa  passed  "  out  of  this  transitory  life,"  to  be 
followed,  after  few  and  evil  years,  by  her  son  and 
her  husband.  "  So  the  body  of  King  Edward  the 
Third,  with  great  processions,  weepings  and  lamen- 
tations, his  sons  behind  him,  with  all  the  nobles  and 
prelates  of  England,  was  brought  along  the  city  of 
London,  with  open  visage,  to  Westminster,  and 
there  he  was  buried  beside  the  queen  his  wife." 

This  is  no  longer  so  much  a  picture,  as  an  anthem 
or  a  solemn  music;  a  dirge  at  vespers  for  the  morning 
splendours  of  Cressy  and  Poitiers.  No  man  had 
rejoiced  more  in  that  double  glory  or  seen  more 
hope  in  it,  than  Froissart:  the  king  was  "  a  noble 
knight  of  his  own  hand,"  the  prince  was  his  "  true 
son,  worthy  to  guard  a  realm  ";  the  vital  principle 
of  their  chivaky  was,  in  that  age,  as  for  all  we  know 
it  will  continue  to  be  in  every  age,  the  one  saving 
faith  for  man  that  is  born  to  fighting,  and  Froissart 
had  learned  that  faith  in  spirit  and  in  truth.  And 
now  all  seemed  to  have  vanished.  It  had  been  hard 
enough,  when  he  came  back  to  England  after  twenty- 
seven  years,  to  find  "  no  man  of  my  knowledge:  and 
young  children  were  become  men  and  women  that 
knew  me  not,  nor  I  them :  so  that  I  was  at  the  fiorst 
all  abashed,  for  if  I  had  seen  any  ancient  knight 
that  had  been  with  King  Edward  or  with  the  prince, 
I  had  been  well  recomforted  and  would  have  gone 
to  him;  but  I  could  see  none  such."    This  was  hard. 


Froissart  105 

but  something  more  was  gone,  besides  the  men 
themselves:  their  very  creed  seemed  eclipsed  by 
the  shadow  of  the  coming  age.  The  change  was 
beginning  which  altered  the  forms  of  all  things — 
religion,  social  order,  commerce,  and  the  art  of  war: 
and  it  is  admirable  to  see  how  the  sunset  sadness 
which  fell  upon  Froissart  and  which  is  reflected  so 
inevitably  upon  the  mind  of  those  who  read  him, 
brings  with  it  no  touch  of  frosty  conservatism,  no 
chill  wind  of  doubt  for  the  future.  Would  that,  as 
we  see  in  imagination  the  genial,  wise  old  man 
spending  his  last  quiet  days  in  his  ingle  nook  at 
Chimay,  we  could  send  back  to  him  a  word  of  the 
sympathy  we  feel:  "  Courage,  Sir  John!  you  had 
the  right  of  it:  from  *  this  uncertain  world  '  all  must 
pass,  kings,  lords,  prelates,  knights,  and  squires; 
but  their  descendants,  and  the  descendants,  too,  of 
those  poor  '  commons '  whose  rights  and  worth 
your  heroes  so  little  understood,  shall  bear  witness 
on  a  hundred  fields  that  the  inborn,  inbred  faith  of 
a  great  race  does  not  perish  in  the  natural  changes 
of  their  destiny." 

{From  "  Froissart  in  Britain,"  1899.) 


io6  Nothing  New 


NOTHING    NEW 

A  conversation  between  Stephen  Buhner,  a  young 
Englishman  of  Colonial  upbringing,  author  of 
"  The  Uplands  of  the  Future  "  ;  Philip  Saltwode, 
a  Conservative ;  and  Walter  Earnshaw,  his 
father-in-law,  a  Liberal  landowner. 

Philip  Saltwode  was  some  years  older  than  the 
rest  of  Mr.  Earnshaw's  family  circle,  and  had  already 
sat  in  three  Parliaments.  He  belonged  to  the  Con- 
servative party,  which  had  been  in  power  for  practi- 
cally the  whole  of  that  period,  and  promotion  had 
not  yet  come  to  him  in  the  form  of  office;  but  he 
had  long  been  distinguished  by  the  intimacy  of 
several  of  his  chiefs,  and  was  private  secretary  to 
one  of  them.  His  capacity  for  this  kind  of  work  was 
very  considerable,  but  his  future  was  a  little  com- 
promised by  his  fondness  for  ideas.  His  interests 
were,  in  fact,  those  of  a  philosopher  rather  than 
what  is  called  a  practical  politician;  but  if  his 
prospects  suffered  by  this,  he  found  great  consolation 
in  the  whispers  which  would  brand  him  as  a"  dan- 
gerous "  young  man.  Of  all  the  party  now  at  Garden- 
leigh  he  was  probably  the  one  who  had  read  Stephen's 
book  with  most  care;  for  though  the  author's  views 
had  not  for  him  the  personal  interest  that  they  had 
for  Aubrey  and  Eleanor,  he  assigned  to  them  a  much 
higher  place  among  opinions  of  public  importance. 
After  dinner,  when  the  dining-room  was  deserted 


Nothing   New  107 

for  the  verandah,  he  seated  himself  by  Stephen,  who 
turned  to  him  with  pleasure,  attracted  already  by 
his  intellectual  face  and  unconventional  charm  of 
manner. 

"  I  don't  want  to  ask  an  indiscreet  question," 
Saltwode  began;  "  but  if  you  are  thinking  of  taking 
any  part  in  political  life,  it  would  interest  me  very 
much  to  hear  about  it." 

"  I  can  only  say,"  replied  Stephen,  readily,  "  that 
I  am  unconscious  of  any  such  inclination  at  present; 
but  I  am  always  glad  to  talk  politics,  especially 
English  politics,  about  which  I  have  very  little 
first-hand  information.  I  don't  count  the  news- 
papers." 

"  Well,"  said  Philip,  "if  it  were  merely  inform- 
ation that  you  wanted,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
word,  the  press  has  never  been  so  well  informed  as 
it  is  now.  But  I  take  it  your  inquiry  is  really  one 
into  principles,  and  in  that  case  the  less  you  read 
about  tactics  the  better." 

"  You  make  me  feel  very  unfledged,"  said  Stephen. 
"  I  suppose  principles  are  a  kind  of  juvenile  ailment 
in  the  life  of  a  politician?  " 

"  Not  in  my  opinion,"  replied  Philip,  seriously. 
"  The  party  division  is  to  me  as  real  as  the  difference 
between  the  sexes;  and  when  a  mind  is  once  estab- 
lished in  either  class  it  can  never  change — except  in 
abnormal  instances,  which  are  generally  cases  of 
degeneration  or  of  fraudulent  disguise." 

"  May  I  ask,"  said  Stephen,  laughing,  "  to  which 
political  sex  you  yourself  belong?  " 


io8  Nothing  New 

"  The  masculine — what  we  call  the  Conservative." 

"  Why  the  masculine?  "  asked  Stephen.  "  I  have 
always  thought  of  Conservatism  as  the  passive 
element." 

"  That  is  the  common  idea;  and  it  is  true  that 
the  Conservative  party  must  naturally  include  all 
the  timid,  senile,  and  old-womanish  minds  of  the 
community.  But  they  are  under  the  same  mis- 
conception as  yourself,  if  you  will  forgive  me  for 
saying  so.  They  take  Conservatism  to  be  the  creed 
of  immobility,  the  cause  of  crystaUisation.  But 
obviously  that  is  impossible;  the  status  quo  has 
never  been,  and  can  never  be,  preserved.  A  mere 
*  stop-the-clock  '  party  would  perish  in  a  year — 
that  is,  as  soon  as  it  became  evident  that  it  had 
entirely  failed  to  stop  the  clock." 

"  Oh,  oh!  "  said  Stephen;  "  do  you  deny  that  there 
has  ever  been  such  a  thing  as  a  reactionary  party  ?  " 

"  Reactionary  is  only  a  nickname  for  Conservative; 
the  fundamental  principle  implied  by  both  is  loyalty 
to  the  past,  admiration  of  the  past,  imitation  of 
the  past.  But  the  past  was  no  more  static  than 
the  present  is;  those  were  living  trees  which  our 
ancestors  tended,  and  under  which  they  sat.  They 
change,  of  course,  because  they  grow;  but  it  is 
our  business  to  see  that  they  remain  in  their  places, 
and  are  not  cut  down  or  rooted  up  in  favour  of 
others  which  are  not  indigenous." 

*'  I  accept  your  simile,"  replied  Stephen,  "  and 
I  ask  you  what  you  propose  to  do  when  your  trees 
no  longer  give  you  adequate  shelter;   when  they  are 


Nothing   New  109 

leafless  at  the  extremities,  and  decayed  in  every 
branch  and  hollow  at  the  core." 

"  Radicalism,"  said  Philip,  smiling,  "  is  the  creed 
of  the  faddist  with  the  axe.  He  has  always  gone 
about  seeking  what  he  may  cut  down,  and  naturally 
he  magnifies  the  decay  and  minimises  the  surviving 
utility  of  every  institution  that  comes  in  his  way." 

"  Is  it  your  position,  then,"  said  Stephen,  "  that 
he  is  always  wrong — that  the  moment  will  never 
come  for  a  radical  operation?  " 

"  I  do  not  venture  to  prophesy,"  replied  Philip, 
"  but  I  say  that  in  England  the  moment  has  never 
yet  been  in  sight  when  a  sacrifice  of  the  kind  was 
called  for." 

"  I  am  no  historian,"  said  Stephen,  "  but  I  should 
have  thought  that  feudalism  was  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
forgotten." 

"  Never  less  so.  You  have  been  misinformed 
by  the  painters  and  poets  and  pessimists,  who  call 
us  degenerate  because  the  armoury  of  our  invincible 
forefathers  is  hung  in  our  halls  and  not  on  our  backs. 
So  it  was  in  1805;  so  it  was  in  1815;  so  it  always 
has  been.  The  picturesque  is  always  obsolete; 
but  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  the  love  of  war  and  sport, 
and  the  religious  regard  for  the  weaker — that  is 
more  alive  than  ever  it  was." 

"  Not  quite  so  effectively,  is  it?  "  asked  Stephen. 
"  The  Germans  claim  to  be  able  to  beat  you  in  war, 
and  the  Americans  in  athletics." 

PhiUp  smiled  disdainfully.  "  That  '  you  '  be- 
trays the  exile,"  he  said;    "but  not  more  clearly 


iio  Nothing  New 

than  the  argument  does.  Somebody  has  always 
been  beating  us.  It  is  in  our  blood  to  desire  the 
Olympic  dust  more  than  the  Olympic  crown;  and 
there  are,  as  you  say,  certain  other  nations  who 
seek  victory  with  long  odds  rather  than  a  fair  fight 
against  the  strong.  We  don't  win  oftener  than 
others — we  never  did — but  we  forget  our  defeats, 
and  they  brood  over  theirs."  He  threw  his  cigarette 
away  and  took  another.  "  By  the  way,"  he  began 
again,  "we  are  a  long  way  off  the  track;  we  are 
talking  about  chivalry,  which  is  only  a  concomitant 
of  feudalism." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "  I  was  going  to  bring 
you  back  to  that.  You  have  to  persuade  me  that 
this  aristocratic-looking  English  system  is  not  what 
it  looks  like  to  me — a  modern  dynamo-house  with  a 
row  of  waxworks  outside  in  gaudy  robes  and  tinsel 
coronets." 

"  I  admit  the  tinsel  and  deny  the  waxworks. 
We  love  tinsel;  in  our  climate  it  does  something 
to  make  glad  the  heart  of  man,  and  we  know  that 
it  does  not  prevent  the  workman  from  doing  his 
work  well." 

"If  he  is  really  a  workman  and  not  a  waxwork. 
But  if  you  choose  him  for  the  coronet  ?  " 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Philip,  "that  is  the  idea;  but 
we  don't,  and  we  never  have.  You  see,  in  this  country 
we  are  real  believers  in  equality.  We  don't  reject 
a  man  because  of  his  class  or  surname.  Even  if 
he  is  born  a  Howard,  he  may  yet  rise  to  be  a  post- 
of&ce  manager." 


Nothing   New  1 1 1 

"Good!"  said  Stephen,  laughing;  "but  he  has 
to  rise.  The  feudal  system  saved  him  that  trouble 
by  making  birth  and  power  the  same  thing." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Philip,  "  but  you  must  really 
let  me  contradict  you  there.  In  the  Middle  Ages 
they  thought  nearly  as  much  of  birth  as  we  do; 
but  they  annexed  power  not  to  birth,  but  to  property. 
They  deprived  a  duke  of  his  dukedom  for  being 
poor." 

"I  did  not  know  that,"  replied  Stephen;  "but 
it  was  surely  only  the  precaution  of  a  privileged 
class,  anxious  for  its  own  prestige." 

"Possibly;  but  it  was  strictly  in  accordance 
with  feudal  principles.  The  system  was  simply 
an  organisation  of  the  resources  of  the  country  for 
the  use  of  all.  Every  one  had  his  place,  his  duty, 
and  his  living  wage.  A  and  B  had  the  land  and 
titles,  and  C  and  D  and  the  rest  of  the  alphabet 
had  a  definite  claim  upon  them  for  housing,  food, 
and  employment.  They  have  very  foolishly  ex- 
changed it  for  an  indefinite  claim  for  charitable 
patronage,  in  order  that  they  may  be  free  to  boast 
of  their  independence." 

"  Oh,"  replied  Stephen,  "  they  are  not  all  paupers, 
surely;  and  they  have  a  vote." 

"They  have;  but  the  individual  has  little,  if 
anything,  more  than  he  has  always  had;  the  power 
is  not  with  him,  but  with  the  head  of  his  organisation. 
He  used  to  be  represented  by  his  Lord.  Lord  and 
Villein  they  are  still,  though  we  call  them  Capital 
and  Labour  in  modern  English." 


112  Nothing  New 

"  But  Labour  has  its  own  organisation  now." 
"  Not  for  production;    only  for  revolt.     That  is 
the  uncomfortable  stage  which  we  have  reached; 
but  it  cannot  last." 

"  Still  less  can  it  lead  back  to  feudalism." 
Philip  smiled  meaningly  and  looked  at  Stephen. 
"  I  can  tell  you  with  some  confidence  about  that," 
he  said,  "for  I  have  studied  the  works  of  Bulmer, 
our  most  trustworthy  sociologist.  The  present  state 
of  things  is  leading  us  back,  or  rather  leading  us 
round,  to  the  old  idea  of  an  organised  community. 
In  that  community  every  man  will  have  a  place, 
a  duty,  and  a  living  wage,  and  also  a  further  reward, 
proportionate  to  his  value.  The  tinsel,  which  with 
your  leave  we  shall  preserve,  because  we  like  it, 
will  adorn  the  brows  of  those  who  fiU  the  higher 
and  more  responsible  places.  Wealth  in  reason  will 
be  permitted  too;  but  it  will  never  be  acquired  by 
mere  chance,  or  held  without  definite  obligations. 
Those  who  do  the  best  part  of  the  most  intelligent 
work  will  be  enabled  to  live  the  most  dignified  lives." 
"  I  recognise  the  sketch,"  said  Stephen,  "  and 
I  am  very  glad  that  it  appeals  to  you;  but  I  must 
teU  you  that  my  method  was  simply  to  draw  it 
as  different  as  possible  from  anything  that  has 
existed,  or  now  exists,  in  England." 

"It  is  a  happy  failure,  then,"  replied  Philip, 
"  for  it  represents  very  attractively  the  ideal  of 
State  Socialism,  the  system  from  which  we  have 
come,  which  we  have  never  entirely  abandoned, 
and  to  which  we  are  inevitably  returning," 


Nothing  New  1 13 

"  It  is  a  pretty  paradox,"  said  Stephen.  "  But 
I  need  no  conversion;  you  must  try  it  on  your 
Conservative  friends." 

"  I  thought  you  would  say  that,"  rephed  Philip, 
with  an  appreciative  smile,  "  and  I  confess  that 
you  hit  me  hard.  There  are  no  hindrances  like  those 
of  one's  own  household.  The  Conservatives  shy  at 
the  very  name  of  Socialism,  because  they  own  most 
of  the  great  fortunes  and  titles,  and  they  fear  either 
to  lose  them  or  to  have  them  burdened  with  hard- 
and-fast  responsibilities.  The  Englishman  loves 
duty,  but  hates  obligation." 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  Mr,  Earnshaw,"  said  Stephen, 
seeing  his  host  approach  at  this  moment,  "which 
of  the  two  great  parties  is,  in  his  opinion,  the  more 
likely  to  coalesce  with  the  Sociahsts." 

"  If  bidding  were  buying,  I  should  say  the  Con- 
servatives," replied  Mr.  Earnshaw;  "  but  in  some 
bargains  there  are  other  considerations  beside  the 
mere  price." 

"  The  Socialists,"  said  Philip,  "  are  not  selling 
an  old  horse  to  a  kind  home." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw,  when  they  had  all 
done  laughing,  "  they  are  not  looking  for  affection, 
but  they  are  looking  for  success;  and  they  will 
find  it  by  joining  the  party  which  is  least  handicapped 
by  devotion  to  system.  So  long  as  socialistic  measures 
come  singly  and  are  purely  opportunist,  there  is 
apparently  no  limit  to  the  amount  we  can  absorb; 
for,  among  Englishmen,  the  best  individualist  is 
at  heart  the  best  fellow-citizen.     But  your  German 


TI4  The   Church   of   Science 

system  spoils  all  for  us.    When  logic  comes  in  at  the 
door,  persuasion  flies  out  of  the  window." 

"  My  father-in-law  is  incorrigible,"  said  Philip 
to  Stephen;   "  it  is  an  old  quarrel  between  us." 

"It  is  an  older  quarrel  than  us,"  replied  Mr. 
Earnshaw;  "it  is  as  old  as  that  " — he  pointed  to 
the  long,  silent  slope  of  the  park,  where  the  cattle 
were  wandering  in  the  moonlight. 

The  spell  of  the  summer  night  fell  upon  the  three 
men,  and  they  sat  for  some  time  without  a  word, 
their  thoughts  all  following  the  same  train.  For 
the  first  few  moments  the  scene  had  a  strange  air 
of  unreality ;  they  saw  the  hills  and  trees  and  silvered 
water  as  things  which  had  been  enchanted  from  life 
into  tapestry;  but  soon  they  themselves  were  bound 
with  the  same  magic.  This  alone  was  real,  and  to 
think  again  of  their  politics  was  to  look  from  far  off 
upon  the  transient  and  dusty  struggles  of  a  half- 
forgotten  world.  Is  it  possible,  they  wondered,  that 
such  things  are  still  in  issue  ? 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Earnshaw  at  last;  "  there  is 
nothing  new  under  the  moon.  Let  us  go  in."  And 
he  led  the  way  into  the  house. 

{From  "  The  Old  Country,"  1906.) 

THE    CHURCH    OF    SCIENCE 

Stephen  drew  a  long  breath  and  plunged.  "  Well," 
he  said,  "  I  try  to  see  everything  in  as  generalised  a 
form  as  possible  before  admitting  it  to  my  new 
world.     Religion  I  can  place  there,  because  it  is  a 


The   Church   of  Science  115 

universal,  an  inclusive  element;  but  a  Church  is 
particularist  and  exclusive  by  its  very  nature.  A 
reasonable,  scientifically  ordered  community,  if  it 
were  given  anything  like  a  fair  start,  would  never 
allow  such  an  influence  to  get  a  hold  at  all." 

"  I  follow  you,"  said  Mr.  Eamshaw  :  "  the 
Churches,  taken  all  together,  are  a  terrible  satire 
on  the  idea  of  the  Church.  But  all  Christendom  has 
belonged  to  one  or  another  of  them.  Why  is  this, 
do  you  think?  and  why  should  this  be  not  the  case 
in  the  future?  " 

"  Men  have  always  desired  incorporation;  it  is  in 
their  nature  to  wish  to  have  something  larger  behind 
them — some  great  body  to  which  they  can  refer 
themselves." 

"Why  should  that  natural  feeling  cease?  " 

•"  Because  it  is  in  reality,  like  patriotism,  not 
essential." 

"  Patriotism  has  certainly  changed,"  said  Mr. 
Eamshaw;  "it  is  less  concentrated  now  than  it 
probably  was  in  more  tribal  days,  and  I,  for  one, 
rather  regret  the  fact.  But  supposing  that  patriotism 
must  widen  until  it  ultimately  disappears,  I  think 
you  are  overlooking  a  real  difference  in  using  it  as  an 
analogy  here.  Patriotism  is  essentially  defensive. 
It  will  be  impossible,  you  say,  in  a  world-state, 
because  a  world-state  can  have  no  enemies.  But  a 
spiritual  communion  among  men  can  never  be 
useless,  for  in  the  spiritual  world  man  will  always 
be  at  war." 

"  I    should    not    myself    use    the    word    '  war, 


» >» 


Il6  The   Church   of   Science 

replied  Stephen;  "it  seems  to  imply  personal  op- 
ponents— Powers  and  Spirits  of  the  nethermost 
abyss." 

"I  had  no  such  intention,"  said  Mr.  Eamshaw; 
"  I  was  thinking  of  the  strenue  militantes  of  Thomas 
h.  Kempis — the  warriors  who  have  overcome  the 
world.  You  don't  deny  that  Hfe  is  a  conflict,  in  which 
man  needs  all  the  help  he  can  find?  " 

"  No.  But  surely,  if  it  is  to  be  a  force  stronger 
than  his  own,  he  must  seek  it  from  a  higher  power, 
not  from  his  fellow-man." 

"  Then  we  are  all  to  live  entirely  separate  lives — 
each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid?  " 

"No,  no,"  said  Stephen,  earnestly;  "that  is  the 
opposite  of  my  behef.  I  look  to  see  men  helping  one 
another  as  they  have  never  helped  before;  but  it 
will  be  mainly  in  the  ways  of  science — in  clearing 
away  obstacles  and  tangles  and  dangers,  and  giving 
a  fair  field  to  '  original  goodness,'  which  is,  at  least, 
as  natural  and  as  visible  as  original  sin.  I  do  not  say 
that  goodness  may  not  be  fostered,  too,  by  fellow- 
ship; but  I  do  say  that  the  fellowships  which  at 
present  exist  for  that  object  seem  to  have  done  far 
more  harm  than  good." 

"  It  is  difi&cult  to  think  without  enthusiasm,"  said 
Mr.  Eamshaw,  "  of  the  cause  of  science  and  the  ser- 
vice by  which  it  has  been  forwarded.  But  hitherto  it 
has  done  but  little  for  the  clearing  of  man's  spiritual 
path,  because  it  has  hardly  yet  recognised  the  exist- 
ence of  spiritual  phenomena  at  all.  It  recognises 
flowers,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  water-lilies 


The    Body   of   Patriotism  I17 

which  covered  the  bay  at  their  feet,  "  because  they 
are  substantisd;  they  appeal  to  the  common  senses 
of  all  men;  they  float  on  water,  grow  on  stalks,  and 
are  rooted  in  mud.  But  it  turns  away  from  our 
mental  experiences,  as  inconsistently,  it  seems  to 
me,  as  though  it  should  refuse  to  recognise  those 
slender  bars  of  turquoise  that  you  see  coming  and 
going  upon  the  water-lilies — mere  flashes  of  momen- 
tary hght  from  nowhere." 

"  Yes,"  said  Stephen,  "  dragon-flies  and  dreams 
should  all  come  in.  But  the  scientific  people  have 
developed  a  dogmatism  of  their  own;  they  have 
founded  the  Materialistic  Church,  and  it  is  showing 
the  characteristic  faults  of  all  Churches." 

{From  "  The  Old  Country,"  1906.) 


THE    BODY    OF    PATRIOTISM 

Sir  Henry  asked  at  breakfast  how  the  day  was  to 
be  spent. 

"  There  is  a  little  service  to-day,"  said  Lady 
Marland;  "it  is  the  Translation  of  King  Edward. 
I  shall  go  to  church;  I  hope  every  one  will  go  to 
church." 

She  looked  at  Stephen,  who  replied  without 
enthusiasm  that  he  would  certainly  come. 

"  It  is  also  Midsummer  Eve,"  said  Aubrey  to  him. 
"  How  are  you  going  to  keep  that?  " 

Stephen  replied  that  he  had  never  kept  Mid- 
summer Eve,  and  knew  no  way  of  doing  so. 


Ii8  The   Body  of  Patriotism 

"What!"  cried  Aubrey.  "Have  you  never 
looked  for  the  way  to  Fairyland?  " 

He  smiled  a  little  bitterly.  "  I  thought  I  had 
found  it  once,"  he  said,  "  but  some  one  misled  me, 
after  all." 

"  Would  you  Hke  to  try  again?  "  she  asked,  with 
bright  eyes  full  of  a  childish  playfulness.  They  made 
his  heart  ache,  but  there  was  no  resisting  them. 

So  these  two  started  together  towards  the  cool  of 
the  day,  when  the  sun  was  westering,  in  a  direction 
that  was  new  to  Stephen  almost  from  the  first. 

They  left  the  park  by  a  stile  below  the  lodge  where 
he  had  come  with  Edmund  to  meet  the  Bishop, 
crossed  the  road  where  it  passes  through  the  hamlet 
of  Lower  Croonington,  and  found  themselves  at  the 
entrance  of  the  little  valley  through  which  the  river 
Sel  winds  quietly  between  two  high  tablelands  of 
green  pasture.  From  the  upper  level  the  ground 
falls  steeply  to  the  water  meadows,  which  lie  one 
beyond  another  in  the  folds  of  the  stream:  on  the 
further  bank  are  orchards,  a  cottage  or  two,  and  an 
ancient  mill;  the  space  on  the  near  side  is  narrower, 
and  shut  mysteriously  in  by  a  succession  of  high 
hedges  and  by  the  long,  undulating  line  of  alders 
which  marks  the  river's  course.  In  each  great  hedge, 
as  it  comes  steeply  down  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  there 
is  a  gate  at  the  lowest  and  narrowest  point;  and 
when  Stephen  and  Aubrey  passed  through  these 
gates  one  after  another,  and  saw  before  them  each 
time  a  yet  more  remote  and  bowery  meadow  sleeping 
under  the  golden  stillness  of  the  evening,  it  was  as 


The   Body  of  Patriotism  119 

though  they  were  retracing  the  path  by  which  they 
had  come  so  far  from  childhood,  and  wandering 
further  moment  by  moment  back  into  the  land  where 
people  and  facts  are  so  small,  and  colours,  songs, 
and  fancies  so  abundant  and  so  magically  powerful. 

"  This  is  the  end  of  Eden  Vale,"  said  Aubrey, 
as  they  came  towards  the  last  of  the  green  hedges, 
beyond  which  the  valley  widens,  and  the  steep 
pitch  of  the  bank  upon  their  left  melted  away  into 
a  long  and  gentle  slope. 

"  And  who  named  it  Eden  Vale?  "  asked  Stephen, 
looking  at  her. 

"Not  I,"  she  said,  ahnost  indignantly;  "how 
could  you  think  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  charming  name,"  he  said  in  self-defence, 
"  and  a  right  name." 

"  It  would  not  be  a  right  name,"  she  repUed, 
"  if  it  were  only  an  invention  of  mine." 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said;  "I  have  offended,  but 
I  do  not  know  how." 

She  reddened,  and  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then 
looked  up  again  at  him  with  clear,  frank  eyes  that 
seemed  determined  to  be  understood. 

"  I  love  this  country,"  she  said;  "  I  love  it  as  I 
love  nothing  else  in  life.  It  is  to  me  everything 
that  men  have  ever  loved — a  mother,  a  nurse,  a 
queen,  a  lover,  and  something  greater  and  more 
sacred  still.  There  is  not  one  look  of  it  that  I  shall 
ever  forget  or  cease  to  long  for,  and  I  would  as  soon 
kill  a  friend  as  change  the  name  of  the  smallest  of 
its  fields." 


I20  The   Body  of  Patriotism 

Her  voice  quivered  and  rang  in  Stephen's  memory: 
this  was  surely  the  music  that  for  him  could  have  no 
counterpart.  But  it  was  still  beyond  his  power  to 
speak  of  that. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  "  but  I  had  almost 
forgotten  that  patriotism  could  be  so  intense  and 
yet  so  local." 

"  If  you  forget  that,"  she  replied,  "  you  forget 
all.  Patriotism  has  its  own  high  spiritual  thoughts; 
but  it  has  a  body  too — very  earth  of  very  earth, 
bom  of  time  and  the  land,  and  never  to  be  found 
or  made;  it  is  as  human  as  our  other  passions, 
instinctive  and  deep  and  unreasonable,  and  as 
hot  as  the  blood  by  which  we  live." 

Stephen  remembered  how  the  white  cliffs  had 
stirred  his  pulse  against  his  own  will. 

"  I  have  been  long  away,"  he  said,  "  but  I  know 
you  are  right." 

"  You  must  come  back  to  it,"  said  Aubrey,  in  a 
more  matter-of-fact  tone.  "  You  will  have  no 
difficulty  there;  it  can  no  more  be  lost  than  acquired. 
But  now,"  she  continued,  returning  lightly  to  her 
old  serious  playfulness,  "  we  have  come  to  fairyland 
itself." 

She  pointed  through  the  last  gate,  and  he  saw 
before  him  a  field  unlike  any  of  those  through  which 
they  had  yet  come.  It  rose  on  the  left  very  gradually 
to  the  far-receding  crest  of  the  hill,  and  in  its  upper 
part  was  studded  with  great  oaks,  now  casting 
enormous  shadows  across  the  slope;  but  it  was  the 
lower  stretch,  where  it  ran  level  to  the  riverside, 


The    Body   of   Patriotism  I2I 

upon  which  Stephen  and  Aubrey  were  now  entering, 
and  it  was  this  that  gave  the  place  its  curious  dis- 
tinction. Here,  as  in  the  field  before  it,  the  deep 
green  grass  was  thickly  set  with  rushes,  but  in  this 
place  alone  the  rushes  were  of  a  pale  and  bluish 
tinge,  and  completely  changed  the  colour  of  the 
field. 

Aubrey  stooped  and  gathered  a  handful  of  the 
fine  smooth  stems. 

"  Look,"  she  said,  handing  them  to  Stephen: 
''slim  and  pointed  every  one;  and  you  may  come 
here  when  you  will,  at  any  time  of  the  year,  you 
will  never  find  them  different.  When  all  other 
rushes  are  brown  and  thick  with  flower,  these  are 
always  slender  and  blue-green,  as  you  see  them  now: 
they  are  the  true  fair^'  rushes,  of  which  the  Little 
People  make  their  lances,  and  their  colour  is  so  pale, 
because  they  sow  them  by  moonlight  instead  of  by 
day." 

"  On  Midsummer  Eve?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  she  repUed  gravely,  as  if  to  a  child,  "  on 
Midsummer  Eve  we  gather  them,  those  of  us  who 
are  wise;  but  every  one  must  gather  his  own,"  she 
added,  taking  back  the  bunch  she  had  given  to 
Stephen,  and  pointing  to  the  ground  before  him. 

He  stooped  obediently  and  picked  an  ample 
handful;  they  had  to  be  taken  one  by  one,  and  he 
had  time  for  many  thoughts  as  he  gathered  them. 
When  he  rose  at  last  and  looked  up,  he  met  the 
low  rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For  a  moment  he  was 
dazzled  and  closed  his  eyes;    when  he  opened  them 


122  The   Body  of  Patriotism 

again  he  found  himself  alone.  He  turned  quickly 
and  looked  in  every  direction  round  the  field;  but 
it  was  empty,  and  now  it  seemed  to  be  far  wider 
and  more  lonely  than  he  had  thought.  The  great 
oaks  were  a  long,  long  way  up  the  hill,  the  elms 
in  the  hedge  opposite  stretched  out  enormous  shadows 
towards  him,  the  gate  by  which  he  had  come  he 
saw  across  an  infinite  space  of  misty  gold:  there 
was  a  dead  hush  everywhere,  except  in  the  alders 
by  the  stream,  where  a  single  robin  sat  eyeing  him 
maliciously  between  the  snatches  of  his  restless 
and  elfish  little  song. 

The  sensation  of  loneUness  caught  him  suddenly, 
as  the  void  seems  to  snatch  a  falling  man:  there 
was  something  unnatural  in  this  sudden  and  utter 
solitude.  He  ran  breathlessly  to  the  gate;  whether 
it  was  for  himself  or  Aubrey  that  he  feared  he  hardly 
knew,  but  certainly  it  was  fear  that  drove  him. 
When  he  saw  her  once  more  the  fear  ceased,  but  the 
mystery  remained,  for  she  was  further  off  than  he 
could  have  thought  possible,  and  was  even  then 
disappearing  through  the  next  gate  on  her  home- 
ward way  along  the  valley.  It  was  some  time  before 
he  overtook  her,  and  she  seemed  to  greet  him  with 
the  same  air  of  malicious  understanding  as  the  elfin 
robin  in  the  alder  tree. 

"  How  did  I  miss  you?  "  he  cried;  "  when  did 
you  leave  me?  " 

"  It  is  easy  to  see  that  you  have  been  in  fairyland," 
she  said;  "  one  is  always  alone  there;  and  minutes 
seem  like  years,  and  years  like  minutes." 


An   English   Landscape  123 

"  There  is  certainly  something  uncanny  about 
the  place,"  he  replied,  "  but  it  is  very  beautiful." 

"  '  But  '  is  the  wrong  word,"  she  said.  "  Of  course 
it  is  beautiful,  and  of  course  it  is  magical — haunted 
from  ages  beyond  memory  by  the  spirits  of  the  earth. 
You  will  see  to-night  ";  and  she  touched  the  rushes 
in  his  hand  with  those  which  she  was  carrying  herself. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  smile,  but  met  a  face  more 
inscrutable  than  ever;  if  he  could  read  anything 
there,  it  was  a  touch  of  kindly  scorn,  a  gentle  tolerance 
of  a  blindness  that  could  not  last.  So  far  as  it  was 
bhndness  to  beauty  it  was  cured,  he  felt,  already; 
her  love  of  the  land  he  understood  too;  but  there 
was  something  more,  and  all  the  way  home  he 
wondered,  while  they  talked  of  other  things,  what 
it  could  be  that  this  child  knew  and  he  did  not. 

{From  "  The  Old  Country,"  1906.) 


AN    ENGLISH    LANDSCAPE 

The  sky  cleared  at  last,  the  gale  dropped,  and  the 
nightmare  faded  away  before  the  returning  sun.  There 
were  fallen  trees  to  be  trimmed  and  lopped  and  sawn, 
and  carted  to  the  timber-yard— -a  week's  work  at 
least,  and  a  great  grief  to  Aubrey,  who  loved  the 
dead  giants  as  if  they  had  been  human.  For  her  they 
all  had  characters  and  voices  of  their  own,  and  it 
was  a  lucky  moment  that  inspired  Stephen  to  speak 
of  them  as  her  "  fellow-countrymen."     She  joined 


124  An    English   Landscape 

in  the  laugh  at  herself,  but  laid  the  saying  away  in  a 
secret  place  among  others  much  more  serious;  and 
went  out  with  him  to  see  the  woodmen  at  their  work. 
The  park  echoed  with  the  crash  of  timber  and  the 
ringing  strokes  of  the  axe;  the  great  teams  stood 
patiently  by,  waiting  motionless,  until  the  huge 
trunk  was  stripped  and  fettered  for  its  last  journey. 
Then  the  whip  cracked,  and  the  word  of  command 
from  a  gruff  Saxon  throat  set  the  shaggy  horses 
thudding  ponderously  on  the  turf;  the  head-bells 
rang,  and  the  bright  brass  on  the  martingales  flashed 
in  the  sun;  the  vast  baulk  started,  stuck,  started 
again,  and  glided  at  last  from  the  rollers  to  the 
waggon  with  a  heart-shaking  rattle.  Then  once 
more  the  chains  were  shifted  and  made  fast,  and  the 
horses  went  on  their  way  with  a  slow,  majestic  step 
worthy  of  a  great  king's  obsequies. 

"  Ah!  "  cried  Aubrey,  with  shining  eyes,  "  how  I 
love  the  earth!  She  builds  trees  where  we  can  only 
build  houses." 

"  Houses  can  be  English  too,"  said  Stephen,  half 
laughing  at  her. 

"They  can;  but  they  change.  Yesterday  they 
were  of  wood,  to-day  they  are  of  stone,  to-morrow 
they  may  be  of  something  else;  there  is  no  finality 
in  houses.  But  trees  are  always  trees,  and  what  we 
have  been  looking  at  is  a  picture  that  might  belong 
to  any  generation  since  England  was  England." 

{From  "  The  Old  Country,"  1906.) 


A  Theory  of   School  125 


A    THEORY   OF    SCHOOL 

Mr.  Mundy,  a  scientific  man  and  a  gentle  hut  deter- 
mined critic  of  Public  Schools,  visits  Downton, 
where  his  ward,  Percival  Twyman,  is  a  new  hoy. 

With  his  usual  fairness  and  deliberation,  Mr.  Mundy 
delayed  his  first  visit  of  inspection  until  the  boys 
had  been  a  full  year  at  the  school.  The  British 
Association  happened  then  to  be  meeting  at  Downton, 
and  he  foresaw  that  by  attending  it  he  would  gain 
the  opportunity  of  making  acquaintance  with  some 
of  the  masters  on  neutral  groimd,  and  at  a  time 
when  they  were  not  too  much  immersed  in  their 
work  to  be  able  to  discuss  the  theory  of  it. 

This  fell  out  as  he  expected,  and  by  good  fortune 
the  master  whom  he  first  encountered  chanced  to 
be  Mr.  Don,  Percival's  host  of  the  year  before,  a 
man  of  quaint  appearance  and  eccentric  manner, 
but,  like  many  of  the  Downton  stafi  at  this  time,  of 
strong  and  original  character,  not  without  a  touch 
of  genius.  The  meeting  took  place  during  an  excur- 
sion down  the  Bristol  Channel,  the  two  men  leaning 
side  by  side  against  the  rail  of  the  small  steamer  and 
watching  the  cloud-shadows  on  the  Welsh  coast 
while  they  talked. 

Mr.  Mundy  had  been  answering  a  series  of  ques- 
tions on  the  geology  of  the  district,  but  he  was  glad 
when  they  came  to  an  end,  for  he  was  more  inter- 
ested in  the  personality  of  his  companion — a  curious 


126  A  Theory  of   School 

and  arresting  figure,  with  his  long  grey  hair,  high 
forehead,  goat-hke  beard,  and  intense  visionary  eyes. 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Don  after  a  moment's 
pause.  "  You  shame  my  ignorance.  I  thank  you." 
He  compressed  his  Ups,  grasped  his  chin  with  one 
hand  and  forced  it  down  upon  his  chest,  as  if  in 
meditation. 

"  I  wish,"  repHed  Mr.  Mundy  with  the  slow, 
modest  manner  habitual  to  him, — "  I  wish  you  would 
be  kind  enough  to  do  the  same  for  me.  I  have  never 
known  enough  about  Public  Schools — my  criticism 
of  them  has  probably  been  beside  the  mark  in  some 
ways." 

"  In  all  ways,  no  doubt,"  said  the  other.  "  Our 
critics  are  as  much  in  error  as  our  defenders.  You 
say  we  play  too  much:  we  reply  that  Waterloo  was 
won  upon  our  playing-fields.  Where,  then,  was 
America  lost?  Where  do  French  or  German  boys 
learn  the  battle  of  life ?  We  are  stupid:  we  lie  with- 
out thinking." 

Mr.  Mundy  was  puzzled:  but  he  felt  the  vehe- 
mence and  abruptness  to  be  full  of  meaning. 

"  What  is  your  reason  then,"  he  asked,  "  for 
giving  so  much  importance  to  athletics?  " 

"  We  do  so  because  they  are  wholly  unimportant. 
This  is  the  doctrine  of  by-products.  Pursue  one 
thing  to  gain  another — seek  the  trivial  to  find  the 
permanent.  Observe:  I  must  have  an  object  for 
my  walk:  I  go  to  buy  a  pig,  or  pay  a  call  upon  a 
fool:  as  I  go  along — out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye — 
I  gather  beauty.    My  liver,  too,  benefits." 


A   Theory   of   School  127 

He  drove  an  earnest  glance  into  Mr.  Mundy's 
eyes,  and  then  continued  as  if  he  had  heard  a  reply. 

"  No — certainly  not.  At  nothing  of  importance 
must  you  aim  directly.  Art  pleases  by  felicities,  but 
it  does  not  aim  at  them.  They  are  a  bonus.  So  in 
religion — which  is  not  Salvationism :  seek  ye  first 
the  Kingdom,  but  by  losing  your  life,  not  by  saving 
it.  You  were  thinking  of  education:  very  well,  we 
grasp  information  by  handfuls,  we  find  learning 
somewhere  in  the  bunch.  Yes,  the  bunch,"  he 
repeated  in  a  tone  of  intense  reflection — "  the 
bunch." 

Mr.  Mundy  ventured  again.  "  I  understand  some- 
thing of  by-products  in  chemistry,"  he  said,  "  but 
what  is  the  by-product  you  get  from  athletics?  " 

"  I  wandered,"  repUed  Mr.  Don,  "  I  did  not  stray: 
I  wandered  to  the  other  side  of  the  road.  It  is  all 
one:  we  learn  to  hit  a  ball,  to  call  it  (r(f)atpa  or  pila 
— what  do  we  gain  by  that?  Nothing,  but  inciden- 
tally we  learn  to  construct  the  Universe.  I  say  to  my 
form,  *  Why  do  you  come  into  this  life,  where  you 
cheat  and  waste,  and  beget  cheats  and  wasters? 
Why  do  you  come  to  this  school  to  idle  and  kick 
each  other's  shins  and  worry  me?  My  boys,'  "  he 
raised  his  right  hand  and  lowered  his  voice  dramati- 
cally,— "  '  you  come  because  you  have  to  build  a 
new  world,  every  one  of  you  for  himself:  a  new 
world:  the  world  you  see  is  chaos— raw  material 
in  heaps — a  box  of  bricks.  Out  of  it  you  must  make 
a  house — the  House  of  Eternity.'  " 

"  I  agree,"  said  Mr.  Mundy,  "  that  facts  are  useless 


128  A   Theory   of   School 

until  they  are  co-ordinated,  but  you  have  still  to 
convince  me  that  your  schools " 

"  Not  as  schools,"  Mr.  Don  interrupted,  "  but  as 
societies,  microcosms  complete  with  nations,  senates, 
battlefields,  crimes,  and  seats  of  justice.  They  have 
even  birth  and  death:  their  generations  are  always 
coming  to  them  from  an  obscurer  life  and  passing 
away  into  a  wider  one.  There,  too,  it  is  building 
that  is  learnt,  sometimes  better  than  at  school, 
sometimes  worse." 

"  You  think  that  teaching  is  more  efficient  at  the 
Universities?  " 

Mr.  Don's  equanimity  was  not  in  the  least  dis- 
turbed by  this  misunderstanding:  his  candour  and 
his  courtesy  reinforced  each  other.  "  My  dear  sir," 
he  replied,  "  you  have  dropped  the  catch:  I  am  glad 
of  it:  you  see  how  difficult  is  the  receiving  of  direct 
information — difficult  for  you,  more  difficult  for 
softer  and  less  wiUing  hands.  We  talk  of  teaching, 
but  you  and  I  do  not  mean  the  same  thing — there 
is  an  Undistributed  Middle  between  us.  Information, 
I  say,  is  nothing — cin  illusion  of  thoughtless  parents. 
For  information  you  would  purchase  a  text-book, 
an  encyclopaedia,  perhaps  a  tutor.  For  education 
you  live  in  a  society.  Man  is  a  builder  from  birth, 
but  he  does  not  learn  his  building  in  solitude.  A 
Public  School  is  a  Guild,  a  Fellowship  of  builders :  it 
has  a  tradition,  the  secret  of  a  style.  I  would  say,  an 
Order:  best  if  akin  to  the  Doric.   Spartam  nactus  es." 

The  word  Sparta  seemed  to  Mr.  Mundy  to  offer 
a  clue.     "  I  think  I  am  following,"  he  said.     "  We 


A   Theory   of   School  129 

send  our  sons  to  you  not  only  for  instruction,  but 
for  discipline — which  we  should  find  it  difficult  to 
enforce  ourselves." 

"  You  do,"  repHed  Mr.  Don,  "it  is  another  of 
your  illusions — '  Flog  my  rascal  for  me.  Dominie.' 
But  Magister  is  not  Dominie.  No,  the  People  must 
be  their  own  Police — Prefect  is  the  word.  A  crime 
is  a  crime  against  the  community,  not  against  me. 
Amicus  curicB — I  cannot  go  beyond  that  if  I  am  to 
remain  amicus  pueri." 

"  If  I  may  take  you  literally,"  said  Mr.  Mundy, 
"  the  whole  duty  of  a  Public  Schoolmaster  is  neither 
to  instruct  nor  to  control,  but  to  befriend  his  boys." 

Mr.  Don  grasped  his  chin  once  more,  and  looked 
down:    there  was  a  tragic  sincerity  in  his  attitude. 

"My  friend,"  he  replied,  "you  press  me  home: 
you  pierce  me.  To  befriend — would  not  that  be 
also  to  instruct  and  to  control?  Yes!  We  fail — ■ 
the  Masters  of  the  Guild — we  fail.  I  fail :  I  have  been 
boasting  to  you.  I  take  these  young  friends  you  send 
me:  Mith  them  I  follow  the  paper-chase,  the  rotifer, 
the  irregular  verb.  I  say  to  myself,  '  While  we  are 
running  together  surely  they  will  see  and  hear  what 
I  see  and  hear — the  light  on  the  horizon,  the  music 
to  which  the  City  is  built.'  " 

The  long-drawn  intensity  of  his  voice  changed 
suddenly  to  a  candour  without  self-pity. 

"They  do  not  see,"  he  said,  "they  go  away: 
they  have  heard  nothing  but  a  middle-aged  pedagogue 
talking  to  himself.  You  have  heard  him  too:  I  beg 
you  will  forgive  me,  and  forget  as  they  do." 

E 


13^1  The    Schoolboy   in   Luck 

Mr,  Mundy's  heart  was  touched:  between  this 
man's  point  of  view  and  his  own  there  was  a  wide 
difference,  and  he  did  not  lose  sight  of  it,  but  he 
recognised  and  honoured  a  selfless  enthusiasm. 

"Oh!  no,"  he  replied  sympathetically;  "that  is, 
if  I  may  say  so,  an  illusion  on  your  side.  Whether 
they  profit  or  not,  I  am  quite  sure  they  don't  forget." 

He  was  probably  right:  upon  him,  the  mere 
acquaintance  of  an  hour,  that  strange  dramatic 
personality,  that  abrupt  and  vital  utterance,  left  an 
impression  that  was  long  in  fading.  Upon  Percival's 
memory  they  had  for  a  year  past  been  stamped 
indelibly. 

{From  "  The  Twymans,"  1911.) 


THE    SCHOOLBOY   IN    LUCK 

With  Homer  he  had  long  been  famiUar  before  he 
entered  the  Sixth  Form, — that  is  to  say,  he  had 
drudged  through  certain  battles  of  the  Iliad,  where 
men  killed  each  other  with  barbarous  weapons,  after 
unchivalrous  boasting,  and  by  the  unfair  assistance 
of  preposterous  gods.  He  hardly  reahsed  his  good 
fortune  when  Sherwin,  the  master  of  the  Upper 
Fifth,  proposed  to  read  the  Odyssey  with  him  out  of 
school  hours.  He  did  not  even  remember  at  the 
moment  that  this  friend,  whose  duty  to  him  had 
ended  when  he  left  his  form  a  year  ago,  was  offering 
him  a  gift  of  pure  generosity  and  of  considerable 
cost.     But  he  accepted  readily,  glad  of  any  reason 


The   Schoolboy  in   Luck  131 

for  spending  time  with  a  man  whom  he  hked,  and 
sure  of  the  coming  pleasure  because  he  had  not  for- 
gotten how  invariably,  in  the  days  of  his  pupilage, 
Mr.  Sherwin's  tastes  had  confirmed  and  enriched 
his  own. 

So  it  proved  again:  the  gift  was  one  of  those 
fortunate  ones  that  can  never  be  exhausted.  The 
Odyssey,  its  matchless  story,  its  wine-dark  sea, 
its  caverns  welling  with  the  fresh  springs  of  Romance, 
— the  Odyssey  itself  was  but  the  half  of  it.  To 
read  with  Sherwin  was  to  walk  in  a  hall  of  mirrors, 
edl  the  splendours  of  literature  flashing  back  light 
upon  each  other,  setting  each  other  forth  in  new 
aspects,  illuminating,  extending,  revealing.  About 
the  man  himself  there  was  something  Pythian  or 
Sibylline:  in  the  half  obscurity  of  a  perpetually 
renewed  cloud  of  smoke  he  sat  with  large  round 
eyes  and  a  faint  ironic  smile,  as  classic  and  as  wise 
as  Athene's  owl.  His  speech  was  winged  with  a 
soft  unwearying  enthusiasm,  and  his  pauses  were 
no  less  alive,  for  when  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
closed  his  eyes  in  the  odd  way  he  had,  it  was  always 
to  find  an  apt  phrase,  or  to  touch  the  words  he  had 
just  read  with  a  meaning  never  before  perceived, 
never  afterwards  forgotten. 

How  should  Percy  ever  forget  the  scene  where 
Odysseus  on  his  return  home  in  disguise  reveals 
himself  to  his  dear  son,  so  strangely  hard  and  un- 
believing? To  begin  with,  Telemachus  cannot  see 
the  goddess,  standing  close  at  hand,  and  manifest 
enough    to    the    old    beggarman:     "  for    the    gods 


132  The    Schoolboy   in   Luck 

do  not  by  any  means  appear  visibly  to  ail  " — "a 
remark,"  said  Sherwin,  with  his  faintest  smile, 
"  that  might  still,  I  think,  be  earning  its  living 
among  us." 

Then  when  Telemachus  is  at  last  told  the  truth, 
that  the  old  beggar  is  his  own  father,  long  and 
ardently  expected,  he  doubts  and  questions  and 
argues,  until  Odysseus  rebukes  him,  for  marvelHng 
overmuch,  in  words  that  have  a  strangely  deep 
echo:  "  For  thou  shalt  find  no  other  Odysseus  come 
hither  any  more."  "  Art  thou  He  that  should  come," 
said  Sherwin  quietly,  "or  do  we  look  for  another? 
It  appears  that  the  meeting  of  Doubt  and  the 
Deliverer  is  always  so:  whether  in  Homer's  age  or 
Huxley's." 

They  read  fast,  having  no  need  of  dictionary 
or  grammar,  but  the  better  part  of  every  evening 
was  consumed  in  digressions.  In  a  hall  of  mirrors 
you  may  find  your  eye  drawn  irresistibly  down 
avenue  within  avenue,  till  it  loses  itself  for  the 
moment  in  the  infinitely  distant  perspective.  Around 
these  two  hung  all  the  classics  of  the  old  and  new 
worlds,  and  though  it  must  be  admitted  that  they 
did  not  very  perceptibly  increase  Percival's  chance 
of  making  a  living  as  a  stockbroker  or  an  engineer, 
yet  he  may  not  have  been  altogether  wrong  when 
he  imagined  himself  to  be  learning  as  well  as  enjoying 
himself.  From  Sherwin's  Vergifian  rambhngs,  which 
were  of  constant  occurrence,  he  got  perhaps  the 
greatest  satisfaction  of  all — a  continual  suggestion 
of  feeling,  of  mystery,  of  the  underlying  significance 


The    Schoolboy   in   Luck  133 

of  things.  The  poUtics  of  Cicero,  the  artistic  common- 
sense  of  Horace,  the  positive  tone  of  the  books 
recommended  to  him  by  teachers  of  science,  the 
arid  reaUsm  of  the  novels  then  in  vogue,  all  combined 
with  the  routine  of  the  school  and  its  practical 
interpretation  of  ideals  to  parch  a  tongue  that  was 
by  nature  thirsty  for  the  waters  that  are  beneath 
the  earth  and  above  it.  In  Vergil's  country,  for 
those  who  tramped  with  Sherwin,  they  welled  up 
on  every  page,  or  fell  in  the  finest  dew.  Percy  was 
here  at  one  with  the  men  of  the  Middle  Ages — a 
period  hardly  ever  in  sight  of  Downton — ^he  re- 
cognised in  these  "  pathetic  half-lines,"  these  haunt- 
ing and  inexpUcable  rhythms,  the  presence  of  a 
supernal  power:  and  was  as  read}^  as  any  of  his 
forefathers,  at  the  Wizard's  word,  to  be  "  going 
diml}'  through  shadows,  beneath  the  lonely  night." 

No  other  of  the  ancients,  except  perhaps  Sophocles, 
gave  him  anything  like  this  help:  but  he  found  it 
again  in  the  poets  of  his  own  century,  found  it  with 
the  sense  of  immediate  certainty,  of  complete  owner- 
ship, which  always  came  to  him  at  the  moment  of 
meeting  with  great  romance  in  either  prose  or  verse. 

And  they  are  gone:   ay,  ages  long  ago 
Those  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm. 

It  is  surprising  that  these  lines  had  not  been  among 
his  early  possessions:  but  Keats  happened  to  be 
absent  from  the  family  bookshelves  and  insufficiently 
represented  in  the  anthologies  then  popular.  There 
they  were  now,  under  the  lamplight  of  a  January 
evening,  lying  upon  the  table  in  the  handwriting 


134  The    Schoolboy   in   Luck 

of  the  sixth-form  master,  reproduced  in  the  bilious 
violet  ink  peculiar  to  the  copying-machine  of  that 
period.  Three  stanzas  were  there,  headed  only  with 
the  words  "  For  Hexameters." 

Percy  loved  Latin  verses,  and  wrote  them  with 
some  ease :  the  evening  devoted  to  them  was  generally 
one  of  those  which  passed  most  quickly  and  profit- 
ably. But  to-night  a  stronger  spell  was  upon  him: 
he  had  not  read  six  lines  of  the  twenty-seven  before 
he  had  forgotten  dactyls,  duty,  marks,  and  masters 
as  completely  as  any  truant — had  indeed  most 
truly  run  away  from  school  altogether.  "  Down 
the  wide  stairs  a  darkling  way  they  found  " — ^who 
were  they,  those  stealthy  passionate  companions, 
for  whose  sake  he  was  so  ready  to  risk  his  life  in  a 
blind  adventure?  Ha!  what  was  that?  The  arras, 
rich  with  horseman,  hawk,  and  hound,  fluttered  in 
the  besieging  wind's  uproar,  and  the  long  carpets 
rose  along  the  gusty  floor.  What  was  this  endless, 
shadowy,  sleeping  house,  so  strange  and  yet  so 
intimately  remembered,  so  stirring  with  mediaeval 
beauty  and  the  terror  of  the  living  moment  ?  He 
could  half  beheve  it  his  own  home,  yet  every  nerve 
is  straining  in  the  effort  to  escape  from  it.  A  cold, 
tense  hand  draws  him:  they  glide  like  phantoms 
into  the  wide  hall,  like  phantoms  to  the  iron  porch: 
a-tiptoe  now,  past  the  huge  besotted  porter,  and 
again  with  an  agony  of  the  heart  past  the  great 
bloodhound,  friendly  after  all.  The  door — ah! 
softly!  by  one  and  one  the  bolts  full  easy  glide — 
softly  again,  and  the  chains  lie  silent  on  the  foot- 


The    Schoolboy  in   Luck  135 

worn  stones — ^the  key  turns — the  door  upon  its 
hinges  groans — and  they  are  gone ! 

Ay!  ages  long  ago,  and  to-night,  and  for  ever, 
those  lovers  fled  away  into  the  storm,  and  by  some 
malign  enchantment  their  poor  young  friend  Percival 
found  himself  alone  in  the  rain,  hurrjing  under  the 
lamps  of  College  Road  towards  the  house  of  Mr.  Smith. 

"  Whatisit,  Twyman?  " 

"  The  verses,  sir,  the  verses  for  to-morrow:  could 
you  lend  me  the  book?  " 

"  Why,  have  you  lost  your  copy?  I  have  plenty 
more." 

"  No,  sir,  but  I  can't  get  on  with  the  verses  till 
I've  read  the  whole  poem." 

Mr.  Smith  had  been  only  half  attending,  in  his  absent- 
minded  way,  but  he  was  roused  by  this  reply.  "  Hullo ! " 
he  said,  "  what's  this?    You  don't  know  Keats?  " 

He  took  the  volume  from  the  shelf  and  began 
to  read  aloud.  Percy's  mortal  part  was  comfortably 
dumped  upon  a  sofa  by  the  fire :  the  rest  of  him  was 
shivering  back  through  the  elfin  storm  to  that  arras- 
hung  and  windy  house.  This  time  he  entered  by 
the  way  we  all  know,  through  the  chapel  aisle;  he 
passed  the  sculptured  dead  on  each  side,  imprisoned 
in  black  purgatorial  rails — knights,  ladies,  praying 
in  dumb  oratories, — passed  northward  through  a 
Httle  door  to  where  already  he  could  hear  the  silver 
snarling  trumpets  beginning  to  chide:  already  the 
level  chambers  were  glowing  to  receive  a  thousand 
guests.  .  .  . 

The   dream   was   broken:     Mr.   Smith   had   been 


136  Clifton   Chapel 

interrupted.  "You'll  stay  to  supper,  Twyman?  " 
he  said,  as  the  white  cloth  was  laid  upon  the  table. 
"  We  can  finish  this  afterwards,  and  the  verses 
we'll  take  as  written." 

So,  with  Mr.   Smith's  wine  and  cakes,   Percival 
kept  his  fixst  St.  Agnes'  Eve. 

{From  "  The  Twymans,"  1911.) 


CLIFTON    CHAPEL 

This  is  the  Chapel :  here,  my  son, 

Your  father  thought  the  thoughts  of  youth. 
And  heard  the  words  that  one  by  one 

The  touch  of  Life  has  turned  to  truth. 
Here  in  a  day  that  is  not  far, 

You  too  may  speak  with  noble  ghosts 
Of  manhood  and  the  vows  of  war 

You  made  before  the  Lord  of  Hosts. 

To  set  the  cause  above  renown, 

To  love  the  game  beyond  the  prize, 
To  honour,  while  you  strike  him  down, 

The  foe  that  comes  with  fearless  eyes ; 
To  count  the  hfe  of  battle  good, 

And  dear  the  land  that  gave  you  birth, 
And  dearer  yet  the  brotherhood 

That  binds  the  brave  of  all  the  earth — 

My  son,  the  oath  is  yours :  the  end 

Is  His,  Who  built  the  world  of  strife. 
Who  gave  His  children  Pain  for  friend. 


Commemoration  137 

And  Death  for  surest  hope  of  Hfe. 
To-day  and  here  the  fight's  begun, 

Of  the  great  fellowship  you're  free; 
Henceforth  the  School  and  you  are  one. 

And  what  You  are,  the  race  shall  be. 

God  send  you  fortune :  yet  be  sure. 

Among  the  lights  that  gleam  and  pass, 
You'll  live  to  follow  none  more  pure 

Than  that  which  glows  on  yonder  brass. 
"  Qui  procul  htnc,"  the  legend's  writ, — 

The  frontier-grave  is  far  away — • 
"  Qui  ante  diem  periit: 

Sed  miles,  sed  pro  patrid." 


COMMEMORATION 

I  SAT  by  the  granite  pillar,  and  sunlight  fell 

Where  the  sunlight  fell  of  old, 
And  the  hour  was  the  hour  my  heart  remembered  well, 

And  the  sermon  rolled  and  rolled 
As  it  used  to  roll  when  the  place  was  still  unhaunted. 

And  the  strangest  tale  in  the  world  was  still  untold. 

And  I  knew  that  of  all  this  rushing  of  urgent  sound 

That  I  so  clearly  heard, 
The  green  young  forest  of  saplings  clustered  round 

Was  heeding  not  one  word : 
Their  heads  were  bowed  in  a  still  serried  patience 

Such  as  an  angel's  breath  could  never  have  stirred. 


138  Commemoration 

For  some  were  already  away  to  the  hazardous  pitch, 

Or  lining  the  parapet  wall, 
And  some  were  in  glorious  battle,  or  great  and  rich, 

Or  throned  in  a  college  hall: 
And  among  the  rest  was  one  like  my  own  young 
phantom, 

Dreaming  for  ever  beyond  my  utmost  call. 

"  0  Youth,"  the  preacher  was  crying,  "  deem  not  thou 

Thy  life  is  thine  alone ; 
Thou  bearest  the  will  of  the  ages,  seeing  how 

They  built  thee  bone  by  bone, 
And  within  thy  blood  the  Great  Age  sleeps  sepulchred 

Till  thou  and  thine  shall  roll  away  the  stone. 

*'  Therefore  the  days  are  coming  when  thou  shalt  bum 

With  passion  whitely  hot ; 
Rest  shall  be  rest  no  more ;  thy  feet  shall  spurn 

All  that  thy  hand  hath  got ; 
And  One  that  is  stronger  shall  gird  thee,  and  lead  thee 
swiftly 

Whither,  O  heart  of  Youth,  thou  wouldest  not." 

And  the  School  passed ;  and  I  saw  the  living  and  dead 

Set  in  their  seats  again, 
And  I  longed  to  hear  them  speak  of  the  word  that 
was  said, 
But  I  knew  that  I  longed  in  vain. 
And  they  stretched  forth  their  hands,  and  the  wind  of 
the  spirit  took  them 
Lightly  as  drifted  leaves  on  an  endless  plain. 


Art   and   Education  139 


ART    AND    EDUCATION 

The  prevalence  of  a  low  view  of  art,  and  especially 
of  the  poetic  art,  has  been  the  chief  cause  of  our 
present  educational  distresses. 

Let  me  trace  very  briefly  what  has  been  happening. 
At  a  time  still  within  living  memory,  a  feeling  arose 
that  the  old  literary  education — that  is,  the  classical 
education  of  our  public  schools  and  universities — 
WcLS  no  longer  adequate.  This  was  supposed  to  be 
due  to  a  change  in  the  demand:  it  was  really  due  to 
a  defect  in  the  supply.  Our  age  was  thought  to  be  a 
scientific  age,  as  distinguished  from  the  more  literary, 
more  poetic  ages  which  preceded  it.  But  in  every 
age  there  are,  and  have  always  been,  the  same  two 
activities  of  the  human  spirit,  the  scientific  and  the 
aesthetic,  and  in  every  age  the  only  education  which  can 
deal  adequately  with  life  must  cover  them  both.  The 
great  scholars  of  the  Renaissance,  with  their  passion 
for  the  rediscovered  literature  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
would  have  been  astonished  to  hear  that  the  natural 
sciences  were  not  their  province.  The  advancement  of 
learning,  the  discovery  of  Utopia,  were  the  work  of  men 
who  were  blind  neither  of  one  eye  nor  of  the  other.  But 
as  time  went  on,  the  new  learning  fell  from  its  high 
estate:  it  shrank  from  life  to  literature,  and,  further 
still,  from  literature  to  language.  It  not  only  lost  touch 
with  the  sciences,  it  became  an  affair  of  mere  Greek 
and  Latin ;  for  the  brilliant  man  a  pair  of  lace  ruffles, 
for  the  dull  one  a  pair  of  grammatical  dumb-bells. 


14°  Art   and   Education 

Less  than  fifty  years  ago  the  first  attempt  was  made 
to  restore,  at  any  rate,  the  possibility  of  a  wider 
education.  Science,  modern  languages,  and  modern 
history  were  introduced  into  the  public  school 
curriculum.  The  movement  was  at  once  misunder- 
stood and  misused;  it  was  treated  as  a  concession 
to  commercialism,  and  there  followed  an  outcry,  of 
which  we  have  not  yet  heard  the  last,  demanding 
the  substitution  of  technical  training  for  education 
by  the  dead  languages.  The  struggle  continues,  but 
it  is  going  against  the  classics;  Greek  is  in  the  last 
ditch,  Latin  is  trembling  at  sight  of  the  thin  end  of 
the  wedge.  The  scholars  are  wailing  to  a  hostile  or 
indifferent  public  that  information,  however  true 
and  however  useful,  is  not  education. 

They  are  right  so  far,  but  they  do  not  go  far  enough. 
They  do  not  offer  the  real  alternative — the  real 
education,  based  partly  upon  the  sciences,  but 
mainly  upon  literature,  rightly  so  called  and  treated. 
Treated,  that  is,  not  as  language,  not  as  an  ingenious 
set  of  symbols,  or  a  graceful  set  of  traditional  gestures, 
but  as  the  self-expression  of  great  natures,  the  record 
and  rekindling  of  spiritual  experiences.  Between 
life  and  words  the  connection  is  at  times  but  slight; 
at  times  it  ceases  to  exist  or  passes  into  an  antagonism. 
But  human  life  and  poetry  can  never  be  separated; 
even  the  most  material  of  facts  are  born  of  the  human 
spirit  and  retain  their  hold  upon  it;  an  iceberg,  a 
coal  mine,  a  burning  ship,  exist  for  us  only  by  our 
perception,  and  may  be  tests  of  our  conduct  or 
sparks  to  our  emotion.    Since  we  live  in  two  worlds. 


Art   and   Education  141 

how  can  any  education  serve  us  which  does  not  take 
account  of  both  ? 

There  is  one  other  point  which  cannot  be  passed 
over.  The  new  teachers  must  treat  Hterature  in  this 
process  of  education  with  not  less  respect  than  science. 
They  must  not  only  recognise  it  for  what  it  is — no 
mere  elegance  or  accomplishment,  but  the  character- 
istic expression  of  life  in  high  moments  of  intuition 
— they  must  deal  with  it  whole  and  give  no  heed  to 
the  frivolous  accusation  of  indecorum.  In  art,  as 
in  science,  there  is  neither  decorous  nor  indecorous 
■ — there  is  only  relevant  or  irrelevant.  The  sea- 
captain  is  not  trained  upon  windless  and  open  water, 
nor  the  physician  upon  the  records  of  unfailing 
health.  If  the  soul  is  to  be  its  own  captain  and 
physician  through  life,  it  must  learn  to  look  upon 
the  mistakes  and  disasters,  even  upon  the  disgraces, 
of  human  nature.  The  old  education  was  never  more 
futile  than  when  it  expurgated  both  the  works  of 
the  classical  poets  and  their  lives:  when  it  classed 
them  all  together  as  purveyors  of  gems,  and  left 
its  pupils  to  stumble  by  themselves  upon  the  vice 
of  Catullus,  the  morbidity  of  Propertius,  the  cynical 
materialism  of  Ovid,  the  brutality  of  Martial,  and  the 
essential  banality  of  Horace.  The  real  Roman  poet 
— how  little  they  knew  him,  or  how  little  they  told 
of  him !  And  now  that  a  greater  poetry  is  available, 
and  the  life-history  of  more  intelligible  souls — is  the 
opportunity  to  be  lost  once  more  ?  If  so,  the  fault  will 
lie  once  more  not  with  the  poets,  but  with  their  friends. 
{From  "  A  New  Study  0/  English  PoeUy,"  1917.) 


142  Science   and   Literature 


SCIENCE    AND    LITERATURE 

The  recollection  of  Bacon's  work  may  act  as  a  warning 
to  us:  we  must  not  repeat  in  our  education  the 
mistake  against  which  he  protested,  the  mistake  of 
trying  to  live  on  ideas  detached  from  experience. 
We  may  get  our  ideas  from  literature  or  from  science, 
but  we  must  get  them  living.  Our  education  must 
not  be  too  abstract,  it  must  be  drawn  from  that  life 
which  it  is  to  teach.  The  paradox  is  a  perfectly 
inteUigible  one — we  must  learn  to  swim  before  we 
can  be  safe  in  the  water,  but  also  we  must  enter  the 
water  if  we  are  to  learn  to  swim.  The  knowledge  of 
the  world  which  is  desired  to  fit  us  for  life  is  twofold 
— a  knowledge  of  men  and  a  knowledge  of  things. 
Hitherto  the  first  of  these  two  has  been  our  chief 
care,  and  in  this  respect  we  Britons  have  no  reason 
to  reproach  ourselves.  From  time  to  time  both  our 
enemies  and  our  allies  have  admired  the  results  of 
our  system:  our  people  have  been  described  as  the 
only  grown-up  nation  in  Europe,  the  only  nation 
with  a  genius  for  politics — that  is,  for  life  in  a  great 
society.  Our  leading  classes  have  been  able  and 
ready  to  lead,  wherever  the  qualities  required  have 
been  qualities  of  character.  It  is  not  here  but  on  the 
scientific  side,  the  methodical  and  intellectual  side, 
that  we  have  shown  inferiority,  that  we  have  even, 
it  would  seem,  preferred  inferiority.  The  danger  of 
the  present  situation  lies  precisely  in  the  fact  that 
we  have  been  strong  on  one  side  and  weak  on  the 


Science   and   Literature  143 

other:  there  would  be  less  partisanship  if  we  had 
done  badly  all  round.  It  will  be  a  disaster  if  the 
literar}'  education  is  entirely  ousted  by  the  scientific: 
it  will  be  a  still  greater  disaster  if  the  demands  of 
the  friends  of  science  are  repelled.  First,  because 
they  are  right  in  saying  that  to  deal  with  humanity 
only  and  not  with  the  material  world  is  impossible, 
and  that  we  cannot  live  the  life  of  man  as  he  now  is 
without  learning  to  understand  better  his  physical 
conditions  and  opportunities.  Time  must  be  made 
for  this  study,  and  that  means  that  the  time-table 
must  be  shared  more  equally  between  science  and 
literature.  The  advantages  offered  in  return  for 
this  sacrifice  have  been  admirably  stated  by  the 
Poet  Laureate  in  a  recent  speech.  "  We  have  no 
wish  to  exclude  the  humanistic  side  of  learning, 
with  its  necessary  study  of  Greek,  Those  who  most 
value  that  are  too  well  aware  of  its  advantages  to 
fear  that  its  serious  study  can  ever  be  supplanted. 
But  for  the  ordinary  schoolboy,  natural  science  has 
one  great  superiority,  which  is  this,  that  whereas 
the  grammatical  rudiments  of  Greek  are  of  no  value 
— above  other  grammatical  rudiments — except  as 
a  key  to  Greek  style  and  thought,  so  that  a  boy  who 
learns  them  imperfectly  or  never  gets  beyond  them, 
gains  nothing  from  them  and  is  never  likely  to  make 
any  use  of  them  whatever;  on  the  other  hand,  the 
rudiments  of  natural  science  are  in  and  for  them- 
selves rewarding,  and  in  aU  its  stages  this  learning 
is  of  value  to  a  man,  for  it  tells  of  the  things  among 
which  he  must  pass  his  life  and  is  a  constant  source  of 


144  Science   and    Literature 

intellectual  pleasure  and  of  usefulness,  and  it  is  the 
living  grammar  of  the  universe,  without  which  no 
man  can  ever  hope  to  read  in  its  full  significance  the 
epic  of  his  spiritual  experience." 

Mr.  Bridges  prefaces  this  with  a  warning  against 
the  mischief  which  might  be  done  by  preachers  of 
dogmatic  materialism.  As  to  this  we  must  hope  that 
the  leaders  of  scientific  thought  will  prevent  the 
establishment  of  a  Church  of  Science  with  a  new 
orthodoxy  of  consecrated  hypotheses  based  on  a 
partial  survey  of  the  evidence.  Another  warning 
he  might  have  added,  against  expecting — with 
Science'  any  more  than  with  the  Classics — good 
results  from  bad  teaching.  If  the  rudiments  of  science 
are  taught  as  a  mass  of  unco-ordinated  facts,  and 
not  as  the  data  of  great  generalisations,  they  will 
prove  as  useless  as  the  rudiments  of  Greek.  But  if 
they  are  so  taught  as  to  give  the  student  a  glimpse 
of  the  passion  for  truth,  the  sense  of  fellowship,  and 
the  disinterestedness,  which  are  the  cause  and  the 
accompaniment  of  true  scientific  work,  then  I  think 
Mr.  Bridges  has  even  understated  his  case.  We  shall 
not  go  far  in  the  study  of  any  science  without  gaining 
from  it  something  more  than  the  promised  reward 
of  knowledge  and  efficiency.  In  itself,  science  is 
bound  by  nature  to  be  emotionless,  impartial,  prosaic. 
But,  in  fact,  its  high  laws  cannot  long  be  contem- 
plated without  irresistible  emotion.  If  Beauty  is 
Truth,  so  is  Truth  Beauty.  We  need  not  ask  why: 
but  the  passion  for  truth  of  reason  in  the  material 
world  is  not  far  removed  from  the  passion  for  truth 


Science  and  Literature  145 

of  feeling  in  those  other  worlds  of  art  and  conduct. 
It  will  stir  men  to  the  same  sacrifice,  and  reward 
them  with  the  same  spiritual  peace.  Let  us  welcome 
science  then,  and  give  up  the  hours  that  are  necessary: 
with  those  that  remain  to  literature  we  can  still  do 
better  than  we  have  done  in  the  past.  Even  for  its 
own  sake  our  literary  education  has  hitherto  had 
too  much  time  allotted  to  it.  With  all  the  term  before 
them,  our  teachers  have  laboured  too  slowly  and  too 
heavily.  No  poem,  no  history,  however  fine,  will 
stand  being  read  so  many  hours  a  week  for  thirteen 
weeks.  Even  a  promising  pupil,  who  began  the  term 
with  a  certain  appetite  for  the  new  book,  is  sick  with 
indigestion  before  the  end  and  looks  back  with 
disgust  on  the  process  by  which  his  food  has  been 
chopped  small  into  a  kind  of  intellectual  forcemeat. 
With  what  a  different  heart  does  he  devour  Homer 
or  Vergil  or  Cicero's  Letters,  if  some  more  humane 
master  offer  to  read  them  with  him  out  of  hours! 
It  is  a  real  experience  of  life,  for  he  is  at  the  same 
moment  in  contact  with  two  characters  of  men — 
tangible  in  the  style  of  the  one  and  the  comments 
and  preferences  of  the  other.  There  is  nothing 
wanting,  for  the  author  has  been  understood;  and 
nothing  that  can  be  lost,  for  the  touches  of  character 
make  impressions  that  are  deeper  than  memory. 
If  we  give  up  half  the  week  to  science,  we  can  perhaps 
no  longer  afford  to  teach  literature  as  grammar  or 
as  archaeology,  but  we  shall  still  have  ample  time  to 
teach  it  as  literature.  We  need  not  despair  because 
we  cannot  teach  it  all:    the  years  of  youth  never 


146  The   Old   English   School 

did  suffice  for  any  complete  study,  and  they  never 
will.  It  is  not  even  to  be  regretted:  as  Anatole 
France  has  said,  "  Ne  vous  flattez  pas  d'enseigner 
un  grand  nombre  de  choses  .  .  .  mettez  I'etincelle 
aux  esprits.  D'eux-memes  ils  s'eprendront  par  Ten- 
droit  ou  ils  sont  sensibles." 

Here,  then,  is  something  to  aim  at :  by  putting  the 
spark  to  these  young  spirits,  which  are,  after  all, 
inflammable  enough  by  nature,  we  can  give  them  the 
chance  of  catching  fire,  here  or  there.  But  if  it  proves 
to  be  literature  that  fires  them,  we  can  do  more  than 
that.  Literary  art  is  not  a  method  of  decoration,  it 
is  a  method  of  expression :  to  read  poetry  is  to  come 
in  contact  not  with  a  pattern  but  with  a  personality, 
to  be  taken  into  a  living  world.  Into  such  a  world 
if  a  young  reader  once  fairly  enters,  he  cannot  come 
out  of  it  without  change,  if  indeed  he  can  ever  come 
out  of  it  entirely.  And  when  he  has  undergone  the 
transforming  influence  of  the  greatest  art  of  his  own 
country,  still  fiurther  changes  of  the  same  kind  are 
open  to  him — he  can  enter  into  the  literature  of 
other  countries  and  undergo  the  magic  of  words 
that  are  not  his  own  natural  inheritance. 

{From  "  A  New  Study  of  English  Poetry,'"  1917.) 

THE    OLD    ENGLISH    SCHOOL 

One  of  our  enemies  in  the  present  war  is  said  to  have 
summed  up  the  differences  between  his  countrymen 
and  ours  in  these  words:  "  I  suppose  it  will  be  to  the 
end  as  it  has  been  from  the  beginning:    you  will 


The   Old   English   School  147 

always  be  fools,  and  we  shall  never  be  gentlemen." 
It  is  verv  much  to  be  hoped  that  the  story  is  true, 
for  if  it  be  so,  the  speaker  was  a  witty  and  generous 
enemv,  and  his  account  of  us  shows  great  under- 
standing. As  a  nation  we  have  always  been  fools  in 
our  unpreparedness,  our  easy  good-nature,  and  our 
faith  in  the  good-nature  of  others;  and  we  have 
always  kept  alive  and  handed  down  more  and  more 
widely  the  belief  that  to  be  a  gentleman  is  the  secret 
of  social  Hfe. 

Every  one  knows  that  the  word  "  gentleman  " 
has  been  often  misused:  it  has  been  used  as  a  boast, 
or  a  claim  to  privilege,  and,  worse  still,  it  has  been 
taken  to  mean  a  man  who,  by  reason  of  birth  or 
wealth,  is  able  to  live  without  working,  and  to  look 
down  upon  and  domineer  over  those  who  are  in  a 
different  position.  This  is  turning  the  better  and 
older  meaning  upside  down.  There  have  no  doubt 
always  been  ill-conditioned  people  whose  only  idea 
of  superiority  was  to  rely  on  their  advantages  of 
position,  or  to  despise  and  bully  those  within  their 
power;  but  in  practical  life  they  do  not  pass  current 
for  real  gentlemen,  for  the  national  ideal  has  been 
entirely  opposed  to  theirs  ever  since  England  was  a 
nation.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  middle  of  the  four- 
teenth century,  the  time  when  English  began  to  be 
spoken  by  all  classes  alike,  and  when  the  old  division 
between  Norman  and  Saxon  had  finally  disappeared. 
If  we  put  ourselves  under  Chaucer's  guidance  and 
look  into  the  courtyard  of  the  Tabard  Inn  in  South- 
wark,  on  April  18,  1387,  we  may  see  a  company  of 


148  The   Old   English   School 

about  thirty  riders  setting  out  together  to  go  on 
pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  St.  Thomas  at  Canterbury. 
They  are  all  English,  men  and  women,  of  every 
profession  and  class  except  the  highest  and  the 
lowest,  and  the  first  two  whom  Chaucer  sets  before 
us  are  gentlemen,  a  father  and  son.  The  father  is  a 
knight,  the  son  a  young  squire:  they  are  not  persons 
of  unusual  distinction,  but  just  ordinary  examples 
of  their  class. 

A  knight  there  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man. 

That  from  the  time  that  he  first  began 

To  riden  out,  he  lovM  chivalry, 

Truth  and  honour,  freedom  and  courtesy. 

Full  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  war, 

And  thereto  had  he  ridden,  no  man  far  [farther], 

As  well  in  Christendom  as  heathenesse, 

And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthiness. 

He  had,  in  fact,  spent  most  of  his  life  in  fighting; 

he  had  been  in  many  campaigns  in  many  countries, 

present    at    three   great    sieges    and    fifteen    mortal 

battles,  and  three  times  he  had  slain  his  man  in 

single  combat  in  the  lists.     But  though  he  was  a 

war-hardened  soldier,   there  was  nothing  brutal  in 

his  character,  and  nothing  proud  or  overbearing  in 

his  manners. 

And  though  that  he  were  worthy,  he  was  wise. 

And  of  his  port  as  meek  as  is  a  maid. 

He  never  yet  no  villainy  ne  said 

In  all  his  life,  unto  no  manner  wight. 

He  was  a  very  perfect  gentle  knight. 

Not  a  word  is  said  of  high  birth  or  wealth ;  whether 
he  had  these  or  not  he  made  no  show  of  them.  He 
had  only  one  servant  with  him,  and  he  himself  was 


The   Old   English   School  149 

in  plain  and  soldierlike  kit ;  he  wore  a  coat  of  fustian 

under  his  shirt  of  mail,  just  as  he  had  come  from  the 

wars. 

But  for  to  tellen  you  of  his  array. 

His  horse  were  goode,  but  he  was  not  gay. 

The  young  squire,  his  son,  was  only  twenty  years 
of  age,  but  he  was  a  well-grown  boy,  strong  and 
active,  and  he  had  already  been  some  time  on  active 
service  in  Flanders  and  the  North  of  France,  and  had 
done  well,  in  hope  of  standing  in  his  lady's  grace. 
He  was  a  good  deal  smarter  in  appearance  than  his 
father,  with  hair  carefully  pressed  and  an  embroidered 
coat.  His  education  was  complete:  he  could  ride 
well  and  joust,  make  songs  and  sing  them,  dance, 
write,  and  draw.  In  everything  he  did  he  was  keen ; 
he  was  singing  or  whistling  all  the  day,  and  so  hotly 
in  love  that  at  night  "  he  slept  no  more  than  doth  a 
nightingale."  But  with  all  this  youthful  vivacity  he 
had  the  makings  of  the  same  character  as  the  knight. 

Courteous  he  was,  lowly  and  serviceable, 
And  carved  before  his  father  at  the  table. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  in  these  two 
portraits  every  line  and  every  touch  of  colour  is 
obviously  true  to  life.  We  know  that  EngUshmen 
were  like  that  in  Chaucer's  time,  and  probably  in 
every  generation  since,  because  we  know  that  they 
are  like  that  now,  not  here  or  there,  but  everywhere, 
by  tens  of  thousands.  They  belong  to  a  type,  which 
remains  true  by  inheritance,  and  by  tradition, 
which  is  a  kind  of  spiritual  inheritance.  This  tradition 
is  of  great  importance:    an  Englishman's  kindliness 


150  The   Old   English   School 

and  fair-mindedness  may  be  his  by  natm:e,  but 
courtesy  and  self-restraint  are  acquired  qualities 
and  have  come  to  him  from  the  order  of  chivalry, 
into  which  his  ancestors  were  initiated  by  another 
race.  That  order  contained  perishable  and  im- 
perishable elements;  the  perishable,  that  is  to  say, 
the  ceremonies  and  pageantry,  died  out,  perhaps 
more  quickly  in  England  than  elsewhere;  even  in 
Chaucer's  time  they  seem  to  be  already  in  the  back- 
ground. But  the  imperishable  part  of  chivalry, 
that  which  belongs  to  character,  has  survived,  and 
we  have  only  to  look  at  the  history  of  our  latest  war 
to  see  this.  When  the  peoples  who  make  up  our 
great  Commonwealth  have  finished  their  present 
work,  they  will  have  no  need  to  boast  about  it;  but 
we  may  be  confident  that  they  will  gain  the  verdict 
of  posterity.  It  will  be  found  that  they  have,  as  an 
army,  kept  faith  with  humanity;  they  have  fought 
without  hatred  and  conquered  without  cruelty,  and 
when  they  could  not  conquer  fairly  and  lawfully 
they  have  preferred  death,  and  even  defeat,  to  the 
deliberate  use  of  foul  means. 

Our  enemies  have  adopted  a  theory  which  is  the 
opposite  of  ours:  they  proclaim  that  \dctory  is  an 
end  in  itself,  and  justifies  any  method  used  to  attain 
it.  We  cannot  understand  this;  to  us  it  seems  clear 
that  human  welfare  is  the  end  in  view  for  all  com- 
munities of  men,  and  that  if  victory  for  any  one 
nation  can  only  be  achieved  by  ruining  and  corrupting 
human  Hfe,  then  we  must  do  without  victory.  This 
will  often  mean  that  we  must  forgo  the  use  of  our 


The   Old   English   School  151 

physical  superiority;  we  must  treat  peaceably  with 
our  neighbours  though  we  have  the  power  to  end  the 
discussion  by  brute  force,  we  must  keep  our  treaties, 
and  respect  the  rights  of  small  States;  in  short, 
in  public  as  in  private  life,  we  must  see  that  the  weak 
do  not  suffer  injustice  from  the  strong;  otherwise 
the  world  will  be  destroyed  as  a  place  for  men  to 
live  in,  and  not  even  the  strongest  will  have  gained 
an^'thing  worth  having.  This  was  the  danger  that 
threatened  Europe  in  the  Dark  Ages,  and  it  was  to 
meet  it  that  chivalry  arose.  The  same  danger  has 
threatened  us  in  these  days,  and  it  is  being  met  by 
the  same  method,  a  method  handed  down  through 
the  centuries.  If  we  in  turn  are  to  hand  it  on  to  those 
who  come  after  us,  we  ought  to  know  how  the 
tradition  has  been  kept  and  developed  in  the  past. 
Happily  it  is  a  very  interesting  story,  being  made 
up  chiefly  of  the  Hves  and  deeds  of  famous  fighting 
men. 

The  Song  of  Roland  may  be  said  to  be  the  oldest 
soldier's  pocket-book  in  Europe :  it  was  to  the  early 
Middle  Ages  what  Homer's  Iliad  was  to  the  Greeks, 
not  only  a  great  tale  of  war,  but  an  example  or 
manual  of  conduct.  The  night  before  the  battle  of 
Hastings,  while  the  Saxons  were  drinking  jovially, 
the  Normans  were  reciting  the  Chanson  de  Roland 
to  fire  each  other  to  great  deeds  of  arms.  The  next 
day,  when  the  two  armies  faced  one  another,  the 
Norman  minstrel  Taillefer  rode  out  between  them, 
tossing  his  sword  into  the  air  and  singing  of  Roland. 
He  charged  alone,  struck  the  first  blow,  and  died 


152  The   Old   English   School 

among  his  lord's  enemies — an  example,  not  of  tactics, 
but  of  the  spirit  that  is  above  the  fear  of  death. 
Wherever  the  Song  of  Roland  is  read,  this  should  be 
told  for  a  remembrance  of  him. 

But  though  the  poem  is  full  of  the  pride  of  fight, 
there  is  much  more  in  it  than  that.  There  is  the  first 
glow  of  patriotism,  a  love  of  country  of  a  kind  well 
known  to  the  French,  but  not  even  yet  common 
among  us.  We  love  our  royal  commonwealth,  and 
its  good  name,  and  all  that  is  kindly  and  honourable 
in  its  life;  but  we  have  not  yet  that  passionate 
affection  for  the  very  soil  of  the  fatherland.  To  the 
poilu  to-day,  as  to  Roland  a  thousand  years  ago, 
France  is  always  "sweet  France" — le  doux  pays', 
an  Englishman  may  go  as  far  as  "  Old  England," 
but  he  would  never  get  to  "  sweet  England,"  because 
that  is  not  our  way  of  thinking  of  our  country. 
Another  saying  of  Roland's  would  suit  our  men 
better:  "  God  forbid  that  France  by  me  should  be 
the  loser!  "  and  we  understand  him  perfectly  when 
he  says  to  his  sword,  "  May  no  man  own  thee  that 
does  cowardly.  God!  let  not  France  be  so  dis- 
honoured! "  and  again,  when  in  the  moment  of  death 
he  remembers  Charlemagne,  his  lord,  and  "  the  men 
of  France,  of  whom  he  was  so  trusted." 

Here  we  have  come  on  two  of  the  great  principles 
of  chivalry.  The  first  is  the  principle  of  service: 
you  may  think  of  it  as  the  service  of  your  King,  or 
the  service  of  your  country;  for  all  free  peoples  it 
is  the  same  thing,  for  the  king  of  free  men  is  only  the 
symbol  of  their  country  personified,  and  everything 


The   Old   English   School  153 

he  does  is  the  expression  of  their  will.  A  soldier  knows 
this  better  than  others  because  he  knows  it  in- 
stinctively: he  finds  the  only  perfect  freedom  in 
service,  where  all  men  might  find  it  if  they  would; 
and  he  is  proud  to  serve,  because  the  finest  pride 
can  only  come  from  serving  something  greater  than 
self.  So  from  the  beginning  this  joy  of  service  was 
strong  in  the  knight,  who  was  just  miles,  a  soldier, 
and  had  the  soldier's  pride,  not  in  himself,  but  in 
his  order — parage,  he  called  it,  as  distinguished  from 
orgueil,  which  was  the  evil  personal  pride;  and 
parage,  of  course,  means  simply  "  equality."  This 
is  the  second  principle  of  chivalry :  every  man  mthin 
the  order  was  the  equal  of  every  other,  and  was 
bound  to  him  as  by  brotherhood.  No  doubt  there 
must  be  commanders  and  subordinates;  no  doubt 
among  soldiers,  as  among  other  men,  there  must 
always  be  particular  friendships,  and  the  friendship 
of  Roland  and  Oliver  is  one  of  the  most  famous 
instances.  To  Roland,  Oliver  is  not  only  "  Sir 
Comrade,"  he  is  "  Oliver  my  brother,"  and  wlien 
he  is  dead,  Roland  weeps  over  him:  "  Never  on 
earth  will  \'ou  hear  tell  of  a  man  more  sorrowful." 
But  for  the  other  men  of  France  too  he  mourns 
"like  a  noble  knight";  and  at  the  same  moment, 
among  the  army  beyond  the  pass,  "  there  is  none 
but  is  lamenting  not  to  be  with  Roland,  the  captain 
who  is  fighting  the  Saracens  of  Spain."  In  later 
times,  when  chivalry  had  spread  to  other  nations, 
this  bond  of  brotherhood  among  soldiers  was  so 
strong  that   it   held   good   even   between   those  of 


154  The   Old   English   School 

different  races;  honourable  knights  could  never  be 
foreigners  to  one  another,  since  they  all  belonged  to 
one  spiritual  fraternity;  and  this  feeling,  though  it 
did  not  abolish  war,  went  a  long  way  towards  taking 
the  bitterness  out  of  it.  There  were  plenty  of  reasons 
why  Bertrand  du  Guesclin  and  the  English  should 
have  hated  each  other ;  he  was  an  enemy  of  the  rough 
and  tough  kind,  bent  upon  turning  his  opponents 
out  of  France  at  all  costs;  they,  on  their  side,  were 
playing  a  losing  game,  and  no  one  likes  to  be  beaten. 
Yet  again  and  again  they  treated  him  even  better 
than  they  would  have  thought  it  necessary  to  treat 
one  of  their  own  men:  they  let  him  come  storming 
into  their  tents  to  complain  of  his  wrongs,  they  gave 
him  their  own  chargers  to  put  him  on  a  fair  footing 
with  their  own  champion,  and  when  he  was  their 
prisoner  they  subscribed  enormous  sums  to  help 
him  pay  ransom  to  themselves! 

In  the  same  spirit  Saphadin  the  Saracen  sent  to 
Richard  Coeur  de  Lion,  when  he  saw  him  hard  tried 
in  battle,  two  Arab  horses  of  the  finest  breed,  wishing 
to  honour  and  help  so  brave  an  enemy.  "  What  a 
virtue  is  chivalry,"  says  the  Chronicler,  "  even  in  a 
foe!  "  And  it  is  good  to  read  how  the  Christians  on 
their  side  admired  the  Turks  for  their  valour  and 
honesty  all  round,  in  spite  of  their  not  being  "  of 
the  right  faith."  Richard  was  almost  too  generous, 
in  the  opinion  of  some  of  the  Crusaders :  they  thought 
he  went  too  far  in  his  interchange  of  courtesies 
with  Saladin.  But  so  wonderful  a  fighter  could  never 
be  unpopular,  and  his  own  men  knew  that  he  was 


The   Old    English   School  155 

true  to  them.  When  he  was  advised  not  to  attempt 
a  rescue  against  dangerous  odds,  he  changed  colour 
with  indignation,  and  swore  that  if  by  his  default 
his  dear  comrades  met  their  death,  he  would  never 
again  be  called  a  king.  With  all  his  faults  of  temper, 
Richard  was  a  great  knight. 

So  was  St.  Louis  of  France;  he  had  neither 
Richard's  skill  in  war  nor  his  tremendous  bodily 
prowess,  but  he  was  wise  with  a  deeper  wisdom  and 
courteous  with  a  more  perfect  gentle  courtesy.  He 
too  thought  of  his  men  before  himself:  he  might 
have  escaped  the  pestilence  that  was  destro\dng 
them,  by  hving  aboard  his  ship,  but  he  would  rather 
die  than  leave  his  people.  Richard,  for  the  Holy  War, 
would  raise  money  by  any  and  every  means;  he 
atoned  for  his  unscrupulousness  by  his  great  gener- 
osity, but  St.  Louis  was  more  generous  still,  for  he 
would  not  take  advantage  even  of  his  enemies.  When 
the  Saracens,  in  counting  his  ransom,  made  an  error 
of  ten  thousand  livres  to  their  own  loss,  he  was 
enraged  with  his  men  for  not  correcting  the  mistake, 
and  refused  to  go  free  till  the  amount  promised  had 
been  paid  in  full.  This  scrupulous  honour  about 
money  became  in  time  so  characteristic  a  part  of 
chivalry  that  in  Froissart's  day  the  English  and 
French,  he  says,  always  made  good  cheer  to  their 
prisoners  and  let  them  go  "  all  only  on  their  promise  " 
to  return  and  pay  their  ransom.  It  may  have  been 
unbusinesslike,  but  they  seem  not  to  have  lost  by 
it,  and  in  any  case  it  was  the  way  in  which  a  gentle- 
man to  this  day  would  always  prefer  to  deal.     Let  the 


156  The   Old   English   School 

churl  call  him  fantastic ;  where  money  and  love  are  con- 
cerned the  word  "  fantastic"  only  means  high-minded. 
Certainly  in  their  worship  of  their  ladies  the  young 
knights  and  squires  of  the  Middle  Ages  did  go  to 
extremes,  but  their  feelings  were  right  and  natural, 
however  they  expressed  them.  They  set  women 
in  their  right  place,  as  the  stars  and  counsellors 
of  men,  and  it  was  only  when  chivalry  declined 
for  a  time  that  the  position  of  women  was  altered 
for  the  worse.  Among  the  real  knights  there  was 
never  any  talk  of  the  inequality  of  the  sexes:  ladies 
ruled  castles  and  armies  in  the  absence  of  their 
husbands,  and  more  than  held  their  own  in  their 
presence.  As  for  the  lovers,  if  they  did  dress  ex- 
travagantly, and  lie  awake  at  nights,  and  do  reckless 
things  to  gain  the  approval  of  their  ladies,  they  only 
acted  as  lovers  will  always  be  acting  to  the  end  of 
time;  the  fashions  have  changed  but  little,  the 
feelings  still  less.  The  important  thing  was  the 
habit  of  a  particular  courtesy  towards  women, 
a  gentleness  of  manner  and  a  readiness  to  serve, 
based  upon  a  real  feeling  of  reverence.  We  may 
see  this  custom  and  this  feeling,  as  they  were  known 
in  England,  set  forth  plainly  in  the  story  of  Robin 
Hood.  The  writer  of  the  ballads  in  which  that 
story  is  told  is  not  likely  to  have  been  a  knight — 
probably  he  was  a  plain  middle-class  man — but 
he  knew  how  a  gentleman  should  feel,  and  he  tells 
us  that  Robin  Hood's  rules  were  rules  of  perfect 
chivalry.  "  Look  ye  first  that  ye  do  no  harm  to 
any  company  where  there  is  a  woman  therein;  and 


The   Old   English   School  157 

after  that  look  ye  do  no  man  harm  that  tilleth  with 
plough;  no  more  shall  ye  harm  no  good  yeoman, 
nor  knight,  nor  squire  that  will  be  a  good  fellow." 
The  whole  of  the  '•  Lytel  Geste  of  Robin  Hood  " 
is  made  to  turn  upon  Robin's  devotion  to  Our  Lady, 
the  ideal  of  womanhood,  and  rather  than  break  his  life- 
long faith,  he  forgave  a  treacherous  woman  his  death. 
In  all  the  romances  of  chivalry  there  is  no  better 
story  than  this,  and  it  is  the  more  delightful  because 
it  expresses  the  feeling,  not  of  one  class  in  England, 
but  of  the  Commons.  We  can  say  nothing  more 
honourable  even  of  Bayard,  the  pattern  of  all  knight- 
hood, than  that  in  a  later  and  much  degenerate  age,  he 
still  upheld  the  old  law  of  the  English  greenwood. 

In  another  way,  too,  Robin  was  a  right  English- 
man: yeoman  though  he  was,  he  loved  sport  as 
much  as  any  knight.  At  court  he  pined,  and  ran 
away  to  his  forest.  "It  is  a  far  time,"  he  said, 
"  since  I  was  here  last;  it  would  please  me  to  shoot 
a  little  at  the  dun  deer."  A  year  or  so  before,  King 
Edward  had  caught  him  at  it,  but  he  had  forgiven 
him  easily,  because  of  the  natural  fellowship  of  sport 
— he  was  "  a  good  fellow."  The  same  spirit  was 
common  among  the  knights  who  met  in  tournament: 
they  desired  honour  for  themselves  and  their  own 
country,  but  so  long  as  they  kept  their  courtesy, 
they  acknowledged  that  the  love  of  sport  was  the 
strongest  bond.  The  French  knights  at  St.  Inglebert 
challenged  all  nations,  and  especially  the  English, 
not  '■  for  any  pride,  hatred,  or  ill-will,  but  all  only 
to  have  their  honourable  company  and  acquaintance. 


158  The   Old   English   School 

the  which  with  our  entire  hearts  we  desire,"  and  the 
EngUsh  team,  when  they  went  home  defeated, 
"  thanked  them  greatly  for  their  pastime."  There 
are  many  earnest  people  who  will  read  the  account 
of  so  elaborate  a  "  pastime  "  as  this  without  sym- 
pathy, perhaps  even  with  indignation,  just  as  there 
are  from  time  to  time  protests  against  our  national 
fondness  for  our  modern  games  and  modern  forms 
of  sport.  Certainly  these  things  may  be  overdone, 
they  may  monopolise  the  interest  and  the  prestige 
which  ought  to  be  shared  with  other  activities, 
and  they  may  end  in  dulling  the  minds  of  the  young. 
But  the  objectors,  though  they  are  right  in  fearing 
this,  fail  to  understand  the  real  source  of  the  prestige 
of  sport.  They  do  not  know  the  history  of  our  love 
of  games — they  have  not  themselves  come  under 
the  influence  of  the  tradition.  Our  ancestors,  like 
ourselves,  liked  an  outdoor  life  and  the  practice  of 
bodily  skill  and  endurance,  with  the  spice  of  bodily 
danger.  But  the  deeper  reason  for  which  they  valued 
these  exercises,  the  deeper  foundation  on  which 
they  built  their  great  fellowship,  was  the  feeling 
that  in  games,  as  in  war,  and  in  all  active  life,  there 
is  something  more  than  amusement.  You  cannot 
make  a  bond  of  brotherhood  out  of  a  companionship 
in  amusements.  That  which  bound  the  hunting  men 
and  j  ousters  of  old  time  together  was  their  faithful 
observance  of  the  rules.  You  may  win  a  battle,  per- 
haps a  war,  by  carefuUy  prepared  treachery  and 
unscrupulous  brutality,  but  you  will  have  corrupted 
hiunan  life,  the  life  you  depend  upon  for  your  own 


The   Old   English   School  159 

happiness.  In  the  same  way  you  may  make  sure 
of  killing  your  fish  or  your  fox,  or  winning  your 
game  or  your  race,  if  you  put  killing  or  winning 
before  every  other  consideration,  but  you  will  have 
spoiled  the  sport  in  which  you  looked  to  find  your 
own  pleasure.  If  you  give  your  opponent,  man  or 
animal,  no  fair  chance,  you  will,  in  a  minor  depart- 
ment, be  corrupting  life  for  yourself  as  well  as  others. 
It  is  the  sense  of  this,  the  sense  that  there  is  some- 
thing better  than  success,  something  that  must  not  be 
sacrificed  even  for  the  sake  of  winning,  which  bound 
men  together  and  will  always  bind  the  best  of  them. 
The  knights  of  old  time  felt  this,  instinctively, 
but  very  strongly.  To  secure  the  safe  handing  on 
of  their  feeling  they  made  chivalrous  sport  and 
chivalrous  games  a  large  part  of  the  education  of 
their  sons.  The  history  of  schools  and  schoolmasters 
in  England  is  a  very  significant  one.  From  the  first 
the  keeping  of  schools,  for  the  education  of  boys' 
brains,  was  entirely  in  the  hands  of  the  clergy,  and 
the  main  object,  almost  the  only  possible  object, 
was  to  train  the  more  promising  pupils  to  become 
clerics  themselves.  For  boys  who  had  no  special 
bent,  and  who  were  not  driven  that  way  by  the 
necessity  of  getting  a  living  out  of  the  Church, 
these  schools  were  of  little  or  no  use;  the  sons  of 
knights,  franklins,  gentlemen,  or  yeomen  were 
either  not  sent  to  them,  or  were  kept  there  only 
during  childhood.  We  need  not  wonder  at  this, 
for  we  know  with  some  accuracy  what  a  boy's  life 
was  at  a  fourteenth-century  school,  and  it  is  clear 


i6o  The   Old   English   School 

that  he  got  nothing  there  which  could  be  of  much 
value  to  a  soldier  or  country  gentleman,  a  farmer 
or  a  man  of  business.  The  poet  John  Lydgate  was 
a  Suffolk  boy;  he  was  about  twelve  years  old  when 
Chaucer's  Pilgrims  rode  to  Canterbury — that  is, 
about  eight  years  younger  than  the  squire  whom  we 
have  already  met — and  he  is  thought  to  have  been 
educated  at  the  Abbey  of  Bury  St.  Edmunds,  where 
he  afterwards  became  a  monk.  This  is  his  account 
of  his  schooldays  up  to  the  time  when  he  "  entered 
into  religion." 

Void  of  reason,  given  to  wilfulness, 

Froward  to  virtue,  of  tlirift  took  little  heed. 

Loth  to  learn,  loved  no  busyness 

Save  play  or  mirth;   strange  to  spell  or  read; 
Following  all  appetites  longing  to  childhead; 

Lightly  turning,  wild  and  seldom  sad  [serious], 

Weeping  for  nought,  and  anon  after  glad. 

Full  lightly  wroth  to  strive  with  my  fellawe 

As  my  passions  did  my  bridle  lead; 
Of  the  yard  [rod]  sometime  I  stood  in  awe. 

To  be  scoured,  that  was  all  my  dread. 

Loth  toward  school,  lost  my  time  in  deed, 
Like  a  young  colt  that  runneth  without  bridle; 
Made  my  friends  their  good  to  spend  in  idle. 

I  had  in  custom  to  come  to  school  late, 
Not  for  to  learn,  but  for  a  countenance ; 

With  my  fellawes  ready  to  debate, 

To  jangle  or  jape  was  set  all  my  pleasaunce; 
Whereof  rebuked,  this  was  my  chevisaunce  [resource] 

To  forge  a  lie,  and  thereupon  to  muse 

When  I  trespassed,  myselven  to  excuse. 

To  my  betters  did  no  reverence, 

Of  my  sovereigns  gave  no  force  at  all; 
Waxed  obstinate  by  inobedience; 

Ran  into  gardens,  apples  there  I  stall  [stole] ; 


The   Old   English   School  l6i 

To  gather  fruits  spared  neither  hedge  nor  wall, 
To  pluck  grapes  in  other  mennes  vines 
Was  more  ready,  than  to  say  matines. 

Loth  to  rise,  lother  to  bed  at  eve; 

With  unwashed  handes  ready  to  dinner; 
My  paternoster,  my  crede  or  my  believe 

Cast  at  the  cook,  lo!   this  was  my  manner! 

Waved  with  each  wind,  as  doth  a  reed-spear; 
Snibbed  of  my  friends,  such  tetches  [faults]  to  amend, 
Made  deaf  ear,  list  not  to  them  attend. 

When  John  Lydgate  wrote  that,  his  conscience 
was  plaguing  him — perhaps  not  without  good  cause, 
for  he  goes  on  to  say  that  even  after  he  had  "  made 
his  profession  "  he  continued  his  evil  course,  and 
added  secret  wine-bibbing  and  other  sins.  But 
when  we  think  of  the  methods  of  the  monkish  school- 
masters, we  cannot  help  sympathising  with  the  bad 
boy.  Bishop  Grandisson  of  Exeter,  the  greatest 
Churchman  of  that  generation,  himself  complains 
that  these  masters  had  "  a  preposterous  and  un- 
profitable method  of  teaching  " — they  made  their 
pupils  learn  Latin  prayers  and  creeds  by  heart 
without  knowing  or  understanding  how  to  construe 
anything  of  them,  so  that  "  when  they  are  grown 
up  they  understand  not  the  things  which  they  daily 
read  or  say,"  In  future,  he  says,  he  shall  refuse  to 
ordain  to  the  priesthood  boys  so  badly  educated. 
We  know  also  how  horrible  was  the  whole  system 
of  the  clerical  schools.  "  Espionage  and  the  rod 
were  the  two  main  pillars  of  monastic  and  scholastic 
discipline  in  the  Middle  Ages.  The  scholars  of  Pem- 
broke, Cambridge,  held  their  scholarships  on  the 
express  condition  of  acting  as  faithful  tale-bearers; 


i62  The   Old   English   School 

and  a  frequent  complaint  recorded  by  an  inspector 
against  the  monasteries  which  he  visits  is  that 
'  they  do  not  inform  against  each  other.'  " 

No  wonder  that  when  England  became  the  land 
of  Englishmen  this  kind  of  education  became  un- 
popular. It  was  at  this  exact  time,  when  Lydgate 
was  eighteen  and  Chaucer's  squire  would  have  been 
twenty-six,  that  William  of  Wykeham  founded  the 
first  English  Public  School.  Evidently  he  meant 
it  to  be  an  improvement  on  the  monkish  system 
and  to  attract  a  better  class  of  boys;  and  it  is 
easy  to  see  what  was  the  improvement  that  was 
needed  if  we  compare  the  boyhood  of  poor  Lydgate 
with  that  of  the  squire. 

The  squire,  no  doubt,  was  a  child  once,  desirous 
of  "following  all  appetites  longing  to  childhood": 
probably  he  too  was  loth  to  learn  his  books,  and 
sorry  when  bedtime  came.  But  he  did  not,  like 
Lydgate  and  his  like,  go  on  till  the  age  of  fifteen 
with  the  "  private  school  "  tricks  of  a  little  boy, 
playing  truant,  robbing  orchards,  and  spending 
his  time  on  such  games  as  "cherry-stones."  At 
the  age  of  seven  he  left  babyhood  behind,  and  was 
sent  to  live  in  the  house  of  some  nobleman  or  great 
Churchman  to  receive  knightly  breeding  among 
the  squires  and  pages  in  service  there.  This  was 
his  school;  the  knight  or  nobleman  or  bishop  was 
his  housemaster,  and  took  in  hand  to  teach  him  not 
merely  book  learning,  but  the  whole  art  of  life. 

The  first  thing  in  chivalrous  life,  as  we  have  seen, 
was   personal   service;     it   was   the   foundation    of 


The   Old   English   School  163 

everything.  No  one  even  thought  of  being  "  inde- 
pendent ";  it  was  realised  that  society  cannot  exist 
at  all  except  by  every  man  both  giving  and  receiving 
service.  In  those  days  "  no  kind  of  service  was 
ignoble  in  itself,  but  the  service  of  the  hall,  the 
armoury,  the  tiltyard,  the  stable,  the  park,  and  all 
that  concerned  hunting  and  hawking,  v*^as  eminently 
noble.  "^  The  boy  who  entered  a  great  household 
was  at  first  left  a  good  deal  to  the  ladies,  and  to 
the  chaplain,  who  taught  him  reading  and  writing 
cind  heraldry  and  the  kings  of  England,  and,  if  he 
were  like  Nicholas  Love,  poetry  too.  Then  came  the 
time  when,  like  young  Bayard,  he  was  old  enough 
to  ride  a  pony  and  pour  out  the  wine  at  table:  he 
was  then  a  page  or  henchman,  and  was  under  the 
orders  of  a  senior  squire  called  "  the  master  of  the 
henchmen."  After  that  he  learned  to  be  useful  in 
the  armoury.  At  the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  old 
enough,  if  he  had  done  well,  to  wear  a  silver  collar 
and  be  entitled  squire. 

These  forms  of  personal  service  were  matters  for 
care  and  pride;  in  some  degree  they  lasted  on  for 
centuries  in  schools  and  colleges  where  junior  scholars 
used  to  wait  on  the  seniors,  and  they  were  the  origin 
of  fagging  in  our  schools  of  to-day.  In  degenerate 
times  people  became  unchivalrous  enough  to  look 
down  on  "servitors";  they  forgot  that  all  great 
knights  had  once  carved  at  table  and  stood  behind 

'  This  and  the  following  notes  on  education  are  taken  from 
Chivalry,  by  the  late  Frank  Warre-Cornish,  Vice-Provost  of 
Eton,  and  the  very  perfect  gentle  housemaster  of  his  time. 


164  The   Old   English   School 

their  lord's  chair,  as  the  Black  Prince  and  his  best 
friends  waited  on  King  John  of  France,  Joinville 
on  the  King  of  Navarre,  Sir  Thomas  More  on  Car- 
dinal Morton,  and  a  whole  "  mess  of  young  lords  " 
on  Cardinal  Wolsey.  No  doubt  it  was  hard  work,  but 
it  was  honourable,  and  the  compensations  were 
great.  The  outdoor  part  of  the  education  filled  the 
larger  half  of  the  time-table :  it  began  with  wrestling, 
boxing,  fives  and  racquets,  tilting  at  the  ring  and 
the  quintain,  and,  better  still,  it  included  attendance 
on  the  lords  and  ladies  at  every  kind  of  hunting 
party.  There  was  not  much  study  of  books,  but 
a  great  deal  of  music  and  singing.  The  squires 
who  had  charge  of  the  pages  were  required  "  to 
learn  them  to  ride  cleanly  and  surely,  to  draw  them 
also  to  jousts,  to  learn  them  wear  their  harness 
{i.e.,  armour),  to  have  all  courtesy  in  words,  deeds, 
and  degrees.  .  .  .  Moreover  to  teach  them  sundry 
languages  and  other  learnings  virtuous,  to  harp, 
to  pipe,  sing,  dance  .  .  .  with  corrections  in  their 
chambers."  And  always  there  was  before  the  boys 
the  example  of  the  knight,  their  housemaster,  whose 
mariners  they  imitated  every  day  and  whose  fame 
they  knew  by  heart.  In  time  the  best  of  them  might 
hope  to  be  the  body  squires  of  such  a  man — to  arm 
him  for  tourney  or  for  battle,  to  unhelm  him  when 
victorious  or  pick  him  up  when  defeated,  possibly 
to  bring  him  off  from  some  great  field,  as  the  four 
brought  Sir  James  Audley  out  of  the  scrimmage 
at  Poitiers,  and  to  leave  to  their  descendants  a 
coat  of  arms  with  an  honourable  augmentation  from 


Chivalry   of   To-day  165 

his  own.    In  time  the}'  might  themselves  have  squires 
and  hand  on  the  tradition  they  had  received. 

This  was  a  very  different  education  from  that  of 
the  monastic  school.  Its  defect  was  that  it  trained 
boys  only  for  one  kind  of  career,  the  career  of  soldier- 
ing and  sport.  Its  great  merit  was  that  it  made  men, 
and  not  sneaks  or  bookworms,  and  that  its  direct 
objects  were  character  and  efficiency.  What  troubled 
John  de  Grandisson  and  William  of  Wykeham  was 
that  the  clerical  education  of  their  time  aimed  at 
neither  of  these ;  its  effort  was  directed  to  the  making 
of  sham  Latinists  and  sham  saints.  But  the  world 
of  chivalry,  though  limited,  was  a  real  world,  a 
world  of  real  needs  and  real  feelings.  It  had  no  use 
for  any  pretended  efficiency;  your  fighting,  your 
riding,  your  shooting,  your  singing,  your  courtesy, 
your  love,  were  all  put  to  the  test  of  action,  of  com- 
petition, of  risk,  of  life  and  death.  Shamming  and 
cramming  were  useless,  for  you  were  examined 
every  day  in  the  whole  art  of  life  by  those  who 
lived  it  on  the  same  terms.  And  you  obeyed  them 
because  you  wished  to  be  like  them. 

{From  "  The  Book  of  the  Happy  Warrior,"  1917.) 


CHIVALRY   OF    TO-DAY 

William  of  Wykeham  no  doubt  intended  his  new 
type  of  school  to  provide  a  training  in  the  art  of 
life,  for  he  gave  it  the  significant  motto,  "  Manners 
makyth  Man."     To  a  certain  extent  he  and  those 


i66  Chivalry  of  To-day 

who  followed  his  example  at  Eton  and  elsewhere 
did  succeed  in  combining  the  merits  of  the  two  old 
forms  of  education:  from  the  monastic  system  they 
took  on  the  book  learning  without  the  espionage 
and  the  parrot-like  repetition  ;  from  the  custom 
of  the  castles  they  adopted  the  principle  of  the 
boarding-house  and  the  system  of  prefects,  "  with 
corrections  in  their  chambers."  But  they  had  to 
provide  for  a  society  which  was  rapidly  developing 
into  many  different  classes  and  professions;  and 
among  these  the  country  gentlemen  were  only  one 
class,  and  the  soldiers  a  still  smaller  number.  Edu- 
cation became  more  and  more  scholastic  and  less 
and  less  chivalrous:  the  tradition  of  the  knights 
was  kept  alive,  not  by  the  school  curriculum,  but 
by  the  boys  themselves,  and  thus  a  division  crept 
in,  for,  however  you  may  educate  them  in  school 
hours,  nearly  all  English  boys  are  born  to  the  love 
of  fighting  and  of  service. 

This  division  between  book  learning  and  the  life 
boys  love  continued  for  four  hundred  years — from 
1393,  when  the  premier  public  school  was  founded, 
down  to  1793,  when  the  Great  War  began.  Then 
came  twenty  years  of  fighting,  in  which,  to  save 
Europe  from  Csesarism,  England  had  to  make  a 
great  and  sustained  effort  both  by  sea  and  land. 
It  was  difftcult  but  always  possible  to  get  men  for 
navy  and  army;  what  might  well  have  seemed 
impossible  was  to  find  the  officers.  The  old  English 
navy  had  been  worked  by  sea-dogs — the  few  gen- 
tlemen aboard  were  of  little  use,  for  they  had  not 


Chivalry   of   To-day  167 

been  trained  to  the  profession.  It  was  only  after 
some  heavy  beatings  from  the  Dutch  that  the  Duke 
of  York  invented  the  modern  midshipman — that  is, 
the  young  gentleman  born  to  the  chivalrous  tra- 
dition and  bred  to  the  sea.  The  sea-dog,  with  all 
his  skill,  was  not  first  and  foremost  a  fighting  man; 
in  the  seventeenth  century  he  was  too  often,  when 
the  pinch  came,  a  dog  with  his  tail  down,  going  for 
home.  By  the  time  of  Jervis  and  Nelson  all  that 
was  forgotten;  the  training  had  been  provided, 
the  officer  class  was  ready.  The  tradition  had  been 
successfully  introduced  and  kept  so  perfectly  that 
if  the  Black  Prince  and  Chandos  and  Audley  looked 
in  upon  the  Nile  and  Trafalgar,  they  must  have 
seen  themselves  reflected  as  in  a  mirror  by  Nelson 
and  his  captains,  that  "  band  of  brothers "  who 
served  and  loved  and  died  by  all  the  rules  of  chiv- 
alry. And  if  the  founders  of  the  Garter  still  feast 
on  St.  George's  Day,  as  some  have  thought,  in  the 
castle  of  Windsor,  it  is  likely  enough  that  the  Iron 
Duke  sits  with  them,  and  Colborne  and  Ross,  and 
Pack  and  Picton  and  Ponsonby,  and  they  agree 
heartily  about  the  meaning  of  war  and  honour, 
and  wonder  together  at  those  who  do  not  understand. 
The  boys  of  that  generation  were  happy,  because 
they  felt  that  their  education  had  a  direct  bearing 
upon  life — the  life  they  desired.  Their  letters  show 
that  whatever  they  learnt,  they  learnt  with  a  single 
object  in  view — to  serve  their  country  as  soon  as 
they  reached  the  age  for  a  commission.  Wordsworth 
says  they  were  taught  too  much  book  learning,  and 


i68  Chivalry   of  To-day 

taught  it  badly.  He  was  no  doubt  right,  but  beneath 
all  the  conventional  elegance  of  the  classical  education 
they  succeeded  in  finding  the  ideas  they  needed, 
the  patriotism,  the  fellowship,  and  the  love  of  fair 
play.  They  may  have  got  it  from  their  Homer  and 
Vergil  lessons;  more  likely  they  got  it  from  their 
own  tradition  or  from  their  masters  out  of  school. 
In  any  case,  their  books  did  not  trouble  them  long, 
for  the  navy  took  them  at  eleven,  and  the  army  at 
seventeen  or  even  earlier. 

But  after  aterloo  all  this  was  changed ;  soldiering 
went  into  the  background,  and  the  old  division  be- 
tween books  and  life  began  again.  After  forty  years 
came  the  Crimean  War  and  the  Indian  Mutiny; 
when  they  were  past,  the  boys  of  England  took 
matters  into  their  own  hands,  invented  organised 
games,  and  revived  the  old  passion  for  tournaments 
under  many  new  forms.  For  thirty  years  the  gulf 
between  learning  and  athletics,  between  the  training 
of  the  mind  and  the  training  of  the  bod}',  widened 
every  year.  Some  criticism  began  to  be  heard;  the 
answer  was  that  athletics  trained  the  character  as 
well  as  the  bodily  powers.  Then  came  the  Boer 
War;  the  army  was  outwitted  in  a  new  and  peculiar 
kind  of  fighting,  and  a  cry  arose  that  we  had  wasted 
our  time  on  mere  games  and  sports,  which  were 
no  preparation  for  war.  The  nation  resented  this 
cry,  especially  when  uttered  in  verse;  but  it  had 
truth  in  it:  you  may  get  from  the  playing-fields 
the  moral  qualities,  such  as  leadership  and  endurance 
and  fair-play,  which  are  indispensable  for  war,  but 


Chivalry   of  To-day  169 

vou  cannot  get  the  scientific  training  which  is  also 
indispensable.  The  old  school  of  mediaeval  chivalry 
gave  both;  the  squire  who  learned  his  business 
learned  not  only  to  be  brave  and  serviceable  and 
courteous,  but  to  be  master  of  the  whole  science  of 
war  as  then  practised.  It  was  not  for  the  making  of 
"  records  "  or  the  amusement  of  idle  afternoons  that 
he  gave  and  took  those  terrific  tumbles  in  the  lists: 
he  was  rehearsing  shock  tactics,  and  not  infrequently 
the  rehearsal  was  as  deadly  as  the  real  thing.  If 
our  games  are  to  be  a  thorough  training  for  war, 
they  must  include  throwing  the  bomb  as  well  as  the 
cricket  ball,  and  racing  not  only  in  boats,  but  in 
aeroplanes  and  armoured  cars.  The  same  thing  holds 
good  of  the  non-military  departments  of  life:  a 
great  deal  of  science  is  needed,  and  it  must  be  taught 
if  we  are  to  live  to  the  advantage  of  the  common- 
wealth. Let  it  be  taught,  then;  the  matter  is  no 
longer  seriously  in  dispute. 

The  fact  remains  that  the  more  valuable  element 
in  war  and  the  more  difficult  to  make  sure  of,  is  the 
moral  element,  and  for  that  there  is  nothing  like  the 
old  EngHsh  school  tradition.  In  1914  we  began  the 
Great  War  of  our  own  time  with  an  expeditionary 
force  of  seven  divisions,  unsurpassed  for  spirit, 
training  and  equipment.  The  scientific  part  of  their 
efficiency  was  due  to  Lord  Haldane  and  those  who 
carried  out  his  organisation;  the  moral  part  was 
due  to  the  chivalric  tradition,  handed  down  in  the 
rightly  called  "  gentle  "  class  and  fostered  in  the 
schools  where  they  are  bred.    This  is  not  a  matter 


lyo  Chivalry   of  To-day 

for  mere  self -congratulation ;  it  would  be  a  national 
misfortune  if  any  feeling  were  engendered  which 
could  increase  the  sense  of  class  differences  among 
us.  But  it  would  be  an  even  greater  misfortune  if 
the  truth  were  not  recognised,  for  our  future  develop- 
ment depends  upon  this  recognition.  The  plain 
fact  is  that  among  the  few  absolutely  vital  elements 
of  success  in  modem  war,  one,  and  that,  perhaps, 
the  most  vital  of  all,  has  been  supplied  by  our  schools 
and  universities.  Our  enemies  were  aware  that  if 
we  could  but  gain  the  time,  we  might  reach  a  certain 
number  of  enlistments  and  a  certain  output  of 
material;  what  they  openly  denied  to  us  was  an 
adequate  supply  of  of&cers,  for  they  were  certain  that 
the  necessary  spirit  of  energy  and  self-sacrifice  was 
dead  among  our  wealthier  class.  Yet  that  class  has 
not  only  made  possible  the  winning  of  this  war,  it  has 
proved  to  be  almost  the  only  trustworthy  source  of 
leadership.  It  follows  that  our  hope  for  the  future 
must  lie  in  extending  the  tradition  beyond  the 
boundaries  of  class;  and  happily  a  great  deal  has 
already  been  done  in  this  direction.  There  is  more 
yet  to  be  done.  The  better  a  tradition  is,  the  more 
it  should  be  spread  by  those  who  hold  it;  if  this 
tradition  is,  as  we  believe,  a  noble  one,  it  must 
ennoble  all  who  receive  it.  There  must  be  no  ex- 
clusiveness,  no  orgueil,  no  looking  down  upon  com- 
rades, no  talk  of  "  temporary  gentlemen."  Every  one 
knows  and  recognises  with  admiration  that  in  that 
first  black  year  of  the  war  our  line  was  held  by  the 
men  of  birth — that  is,  by  the  great-grandsons  of 


Chivalry   of   To-day  171 

those  who  faced  Napoleon  a  hundred  years  ago.  They 
in  their  turn  cannot  fail  to  welcome  to  their  fellow- 
ship the  men  from  smaUer  schools  and  less  known 
families  who  rushed  in  to  take  their  places  when  they 
were  decimated  and  exhausted.  Harry  the  Fifth 
allowed  coats  of  arms  as  of  right  to  all  who  had 
fought  with  him  in  France.  He  would  have  approved 
the  saying  of  a  great  Englishwoman  in  191 5 :  "  There 
are  only  two  classes  now — those  who  have  been  in 
the  trenches,  and  those  who  have  not." 

The  widening  of  the  chivalric  fellowship  is  the 
more  vitally  necessary  because  its  principle  is  not 
one  for  soldiering  only;  it  is  good  for  all  social  life, 
national  and  international.  If  it  were  universally 
adopted  it  would  free  the  world  at  once  of  both 
mihtarism  and  pacifism.  The  militarist  cannot  see 
that  aggressive  war  is  a  monstrous  and  inhuman 
crime;  the  pacifist  cannot  see  that  to  stand  aside, 
in  sight  of  wrong  and  oppression,  is  a  monstrous 
and  inhuman  crime  no  less.  Both  agree  in  speaking 
of  Peace,  as  if  it  were  simply  the  opposite  of  War, 
as  if  it  were  attained  whenever  physical  force  is  not 
resisted  by  physical  force.  This  is  the  peace  ex- 
perienced by  Belgium  and  Serbia  after  complete 
conquest  by  their  enemies. 

But  if  both  militarist  and  pacifist  are  mistaken, 
are  they  both  mistaken  in  the  same  way?  They  are 
not;  their  objects  are  different.  The  militarist  aims 
at  domination;  for  him  there  is  no  virtue  in  peace 
if  only  he  can  have  power,  for  by  his  creed  it  is  power 
alone  which  distinguishes  a  good  State  from  a  bad 


17^  Chivalry   of  To-day 

one.  We  need  not  stay  to  reason  with  those  who 
hold  this  doctrine;  it  is  contrary  to  the  natural 
desire  of  all  peoples  for  freedom  and  equal  rights, 
and  it  has  been  professed  by  one  nation  only  out  of 
the  nineteen  or  twenty  now  at  war.  The  pacifist  is 
in  reality  a  greater  danger  to  the  world,  for  he  desires 
what  nearly  all  of  us  desire,  but  he  thinks  and  feels 
about  Peace  confusedly,  and  he  proposes  to  attain 
it  by  impossible  means.  In  theory  he  would  admit 
that  it  is  a  state  of  mind,  a  spiritual  condition;  but 
when  it  comes  to  practice  he  identifies  it  with  physical 
passivity,  the  mere  negation  of  phj^sical  war.  The 
man  of  peace,  he  says,  will  never  be  tempted  to 
aggression.  All  civilised  men  will  assent  to  this.  He 
says,  further,  that  the  man  of  peace  will  rather 
submit  to  suffer  wrong  than  oppose  it  by  brute 
force.  Few  people  have  ever  been  able  to  act  on  this 
principle;  many  have  professed  it — in  England  a 
whole  sect — but  they  have  been  led  unconsciously 
into  a  false  position,  for  they  have  practised  their 
passive  virtue  under  the  protection  of  military  and 
civil  forces,  maintained  and  administered  by  others 
for  their  benefit.  Let  us  hasten  to  add  that  when  war 
came  the  conscience  of  all  honourable  Quakers  was 
touched  by  this  reflection,  and  the  majority  of  them, 
with  a  doubly  heroic  courage,  gave  themselves  to 
the  active  service  of  their  country  in  the  fight  against 
oppression.  A  remnant  only  hold  still  with  the 
extreme  pacifist,  that  the  man  of  peace  will  never 
use  force,  even  to  defend  the  weak  from  oppression, 
women  from  outrage,  children  from  massacre,  and 


Chivalry   of  To-day  173 

whole  populations  from  the  cruellest  slavery.  His 
own  salvation,  his  own  spiritual  happiness,  his  own 
peace,  requires  that  he  should  sacrifice  not  only  his 
own  life,  but  the  life  and  happiness  of  his  nearest 
and  dearest,  and  the  whole  brotherhood  of  men, 
rather  than  strike  a  blow  in  their  defence.  This, 
they  say,  is  demanded  by  the  law  of  Christianity, 
which  forbids  man  to  hate  his  brother. 

On  this  point  chivalry  long  ago  accepted  and  put 
in  practice  the  law  of  Christianity.  The  soldier  was 
not  to  hate  his  enemies;  he  was  bound,  by  the 
brotherhood  of  arms,  to  honour  them  even  while 
he  did  his  best  to  defeat  them,  and  no  less  when  he 
had  defeated  them.  This  rule  has  not  been  kept 
invariably — it  is  not  easy  to  honour  men  who  have 
been  guilty  of  barbarous  cruelty  and  cold-blooded 
murder;  but  towards  clean  fighters  it  has  been  kept 
so  often  and  so  conspicuously  that  it  has  become 
not  only  a  rule,  but  a  custom  among  white  men. 
The  British  soldier  seldom  feels  hatred  or  ill-humour 
towards  his  enemies  in  the  field;  he  fights  hard,  but 
he  does  not  sing  Hymns  of  Hate — he  does  not  even 
resent  the  singing  of  them  in  the  trenches  opposite. 
The  British  airman,  when  he  has  killed  an  Immel- 
mann  or  a  Boelcke  in  the  aerial  lists,  will  plane  down 
under  fire  to  drop  a  wreath  upon  his  grave.  The 
officers  of  the  Sydney  cordially  admired  Captain 
Miiller  of  the  Emden,  and  the  whole  country  heard 
with  pleasure  how  Admiral  von  Spee,  at  a  banquet 
in  South  America,  rebuked  an  orator  who  spoke 
offensively  of  our  Navy.    No,  hatred  does  not  come 


174  Chivalry   of   To-day 

of  fighting  between  honourable  men  and  according 
to  the  rules ;  it  comes  only  of  aggression  and  insolence 
and  frightful  cruelty,  and  against  these  man  must 
defend  the  weak  as  he  would  defend  them  against 
wild  beasts  or  maniacs. 

War,  then,  wiU  not  destroy  the  soldier's  peace,  if 
he  is  a  soldier  of  chivalry.  On  the  contrary,  the  sense 
of  service,  of  brotherhood,  of  self-sacrifice,  may  give 
him  peace  for  the  first  time.  "  I  never  knew  what 
peace  was  before  " — so  men  have  written  from  the 
trenches  in  France.  But  the  soldier  inflicts  pain  and 
death?  Certainly,  and  faces  them  too.  Pain  and 
death  are  incidents  in  the  life  of  time;  they  come  to 
all  men  sooner  or  later.  The  soldier  sees  them  in 
their  true  light;  he  knows  better  than  other  men 
how  little  is  the  difference  between  "sooner"  and 
"  later  "  when  compared  with  the  eternal  difference 
between  honour  and  dishonour.  His  belief  holds 
good  for  his  enemy  as  for  himself;  he  will  take  from 
him  his  life  or  his  power  of  fighting,  but  not  his  peace 
or  his  self-respect. 

The  pacifist  desires  to  end  all  war.  For  this,  too, 
chivalry  has  long  ago  provided.  It  aimed  at  ending, 
not  war,  but  the  main  causes  and  evils  of  war,  and  if 
we  now  propose  more  sweeping  measures,  we  must 
take  care  that  our  attempt  is  equally  consistent 
with  hmnan  nature.  It  will,  at  any  rate,  do  no  harm 
if  we  keep  the  old  tradition  in  mind  as  an  alternative. 
We  have  done,  perhaps  for  ever,  with  the  pageantry 
and  symbolism  of  chivalry,  but  we  shall  see  how 
far  it  is  from  being  obsolete  as  a  faith  and  a  way  of 


Chivalry   of  To-day  175 

life  if  we  imagine  it  formally  refounded  and  its 
principles  restated  in  modern  fashion.  It  might 
reappear,  perhaps,  as  follows: 

The  Universal  Association  for  the 
Attainment  of  Peace 

The  object  of  this  Society  is  the  attainment  of  peace 
by  the  eUmination  of  hatred  from  human  affairs.   Mem-, 
bership  is  free  to  all  who  are,  or  who  wish  to  be,  gentle, 
brave,  loyal,  and  courteous. 

The  Society  recognises  no  distinction  of  rank,  creed, 
colour,  or  nationality. 

Rules 

(i)  Members  are  bound  to  one  another  in  all  circum- 
stances by  the  obligation  of  brotherhood. 

(2)  Every  member  shall  be  bound  to  forbear  all  men 
courteously,  to  deal  honourably,  to  fight  in  a  just 
quarrel  and  in  no  other. 

(3)  Every  member  shall  bear  himself  in  war  without 
hatred,  in  pain  or  death  without  flinching,  in  defeat 
without  complaining,  in  victory  without  insolence. 

(4)  Every  member  shall  hold  himself  under  a  special 
obUgation  to  help  and  serve  those  who  are  weak,  poor, 
or  suffering,  and  particularly  women  and  conquered 
enemies. 

This  prospectus  was  written  many  years  ago, 
during  the  first  winter  of  the  South  African  War, 
as  part  of  a  reply  to  the  pacifists  of  that  generation; 
and  for  the  purposes  of  argument  it  was  composed 
after  a  formal  and  scientific  pattern.  It  does  not 
perfectly  express  the  tradition  which  has  come  down 
to  us,  for  chivalry,  though  it  once  had  some  of  the 
forms  of  an  institution,  is  not  really  an  institution, 
but  an  ideal,  a  personal  standard  of  conduct  com- 


176  Chivalry  of  To-day 

municated  by  the  touch  of  a  personal  fire.  The 
writer  who  imagined  this  Association  for  Peace  looked 
forward  to  seeing  the  chivalrous  ideal  spread  from 
the  older  schools  and  older  families  to  the  younger 
and  newer,  a  long  and  gradual  process,  which  might 
in  time  bridge  the  gaps  between  social  classes,  but 
not  the  old  gulf  between  the  life  and  the  education 
of  boys.  He  could  not  foresee  that  a  high-spirited 
and  ingenious  soldier,  then  busy  with  the  defence  of 
Mafeking,  would,  when  the  war  was  over,  solve  both 
these  problems  by  one  simple  device. 

Colonel  Baden-Powell,  desiring  like  others  to  spread 
more  widely  the  tradition  which  he  had  inherited, 
did  not,  like  others,  confine  his  hopes  to  spreading 
it  slowly  from  the  centre  to  the  circumference  of  the 
English  boy  world.  Pie  went  straight  to  the  outer 
circle,  to  the  youngest  and  least  wealthy  class,  to  the 
great  mass  whose  schools  and  schooling  were  then  of 
so  recent  a  date  that  they  could  not  yet  be  said  to 
have  any  tradition  of  their  own  of  any  kind.  These 
boys  he  summoned  to  be  Scouts.  The  Scout  Law 
which  he  set  before  them  is  the  Law  of  what  our 
ancestors  called  "  the  Noble  and  High  Order  of 
Knighthood  " — the  law  of  honour,  loyalty,  brother- 
hood, and  courtesy,  and  especially  of  service  to 
women  and  children,  to  the  old  and  to  the  weak  or 
suffering.  The  astonishing  and  almost  world-wide 
success  of  the  movement  is  due  to  the  method  of  the 
call.  It  is  not  an  appeal  to  the  intellect,  nor  a  habit 
imposed  by  teaching,  nor  even  a  reminder  of  in- 
herited pride — it  is  a  personal  invitation  to  play  the 


Chivalry   of  To-day  177 

game  of  life  after  the  manner  most  desired  by  the 
heart  of  boys.  Come  and  make  yourself  a  man,  with 
a  man's  life;  not  a  narrow,  shut-in  life,  selfish  or 
idle  or  entirely  specialised,  but  a  useful,  friendly, 
all-round  life,  mth  a  wide  outlook  on  the  world  you 
live  in  and  the  people  you  live  among.  Take  the  full 
happiness  of  life,  the  happiness  of  serving,  loving, 
befriending,  and  defending — the  happiness  of  fighting 
and  conquering  all  that  is  difficult  or  dangerous  or 
devilish,  whether  in  men  or  circumstances.  Play 
games,  for  recreation,  but  not  too  seriously,  because 
when  they  are  serious  they  are  neither  quite  games 
nor  quite  the  real  thing.  The  real  thing  is  mastery, 
the  power  to  use  the  world  and  all  its  resources,  and 
hand  it  on  improved  to  those  who  come  after  you. 
One  joy  of  this  mastery  is  what  is  called  sport — 
the  joy  of  pitting  your  courage,  your  endurance,  or 
your  skill  against  others,  men,  animals,  or  mechan- 
isms; better  still  if  it  is  team  work,  and  best  of  all 
if  it  is  the  great  hazard  of  life  and  death,  in  the 
service  of  a  cause  that  is  worth  a  man's  fife.  To  gain 
this  mastery,  to  fit  yourself  for  such  a  service,  you 
must  accept  the  training  offered  you,  and  you  must 
help  to  train  yourself;  learn  to  do  everything  that 
man  can  do,  learn  the  wood-craft  of  an  Indian  trapper 
and  the  multifarious  handicrafts  of  a  modern  soldier; 
learn  to  ride  and  run  and  march  and  swim,  not  for 
the  sake  of  a  prize  or  a  record,  but  for  the  power  to 
serve  your  country.  Above  all,  learn  to  admire  men 
and  obey  them,  that  in  your  time  you  may  under- 
stand men  and  lead  them;   learn  the  history  and  the 


178  Chivalry  of  To-day 

languages  of  great  nations;  learn  the  lives  and  the 
adventures  of  great  men,  and  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  they  have  recorded  in  their  books;  learn  to 
be  a  man  yourself,  not  a  half-developed  or  lop-sided 
creature,  but  a  man  full-grown,  full  of  all  life  that 
can  be  got  from  men  and  spent  for  men  again. 

This  organisation,  this  school  for  Happy  Warriors, 
is  open  not  only  to  Enghsh  and  Welsh,  Scottish  and 
Irish,  not  only  to  the  nations  of  the  Commonwealth, 
but  to  all  nations  whatever,  and  it  has  already  been 
accepted  by  several  who  are  not  of  our  own  kindred. 
It  offers  to  the  whole  world  what  the  old  chivalry 
offered  to  a  single  class,  a  fighting  ideal  and  a  scientific 
training.    The  miUtarist  will  hate  and  fear  it,  for  it 
forbids  his  existence:  the  pacifist  will  reject  it,  for  it 
teaches    clear    instead    of    confused    thinking,    and 
service   rather  than   personal  salvation.      But   the 
great  majority  of  our  people  will  accept  it  readily, 
for  it  is  in  accordance  with  the  tradition  of  one  class 
and  the  instinct  of  all.     From  this  time  onward  we 
may  hope  that  the  tradition  wiU  become  the  tradition 
of  all ;  it  is  vain  to  believe  that  it  can  ever  be  obsolete. 
The  time  may  come  when  fighting  will  be  infrequent, 
but  so  long  as  there  remain  in  the  world  wild  beasts, 
savages,    maniacs,    autocrats,    and    worshippers    of 
Woden,  there  will  always  be  the  possibiHty  of  it, 
the  necessity  for  the  indignant  heart  and  the  ready 
hand.    And  even  if  the  possibility  were  done  away, 
man  must  still  keep  the  soldier's  faith,  for  human 
life  itself  is  a  warfare,  in  which  there  is  no  victory 
but  by  the  soldier's  virtues,  and  no  security  but  in 


San   Stefano  I79 

their  faithful  transmission.     Peace  is  given  only  to 
the  Happy  Warrior,  in  life  or  in  death. 

HIC  JACET 

Qui  in  hoc  sesculo  fideliter  miliiavit 

He  that  has  left  hereunder 

The  signs  of  his  release. 
Feared  not  the  battle's  thunder 

Nor  hoped  that  wars  should  cease; 
No  hatred  set  asunder 

His  warfare  from  his  peace. 

Nor  feared  he  in  his  sleeping 

To  dream  his  work  undone. 
To  hear  the  heathen  sweeping 

Over  the  lands  he  won; 
For  he  has  left  in  keeping 

His  sword  unto  his  son. 

(From  "  The  Book  of  the  Happy  Warrior,"  1917.) 


SAN    STEFANO 

You  may  think  that  after  four  or  five  months  of 
this  sort  of  life,  cruising  close  to  the  enemy,  with  a 
chance  every  day  of  chasing  or  being  chased,  or 
fighting  a  duel  with  a  fort  or  a  couple  of  frigates, 
Charles  would  become  so  used  to  it  as  to  be  no  longer 
excited,  but  to  take  everything  as  a  matter  of  course. 
This  is  not  quite  what  happened.  No  doubt  he  was 
able  to  take  things  more  coolly;  he  learned  to  keep 
his  head  both  in  the  moment  of  action  and  when 
looking  back  at  it  afterwards.  He  no  longer  "  sailed 
large,"  as  he  used  to  do,  when  he  wrote  home;    on 


i8o  San   Stefano 

the  contrary,  he  sent  his  father  accounts  of  his 
adventures  in  very  sober,  long,  restrained  phrases, 
the  sort  of  language  suitable  for  despatches  written 
by  an  admiral  of  fifty.  Being  now  eighteen,  he 
thought  himself  not  only  a  man  but  a  man  of  some 
standing,  and  carefully  imitated  the  manners  of  the 
heutenants,  in  hope  of  being  one  himself  before  long. 
But  underneath  he  was  just  as  enthusiastic  as  ever, 
and  if  he  had  used  all  the  strongest  words  he  could 
think  of,  he  would  never  have  been  able  to  say  how 
much  he  admired  his  captain.  Sir  Peter  was  a  kind 
and  generous  friend  to  all  his  officers,  but  he  specially 
loved  his  midshipmen,  and  they  one  and  all  adored 
him,  talked  of  him,  and  wrote  about  him.  If  you 
could  read  all  the  letters  written  in  these  years  by 
Charles  and  by  his  friends  Harry  Finucane  and 
George  Monroe,  I  believe  you  would  find  a  good  deal 
more  in  them  about  their  captain  than  about  them- 
selves. A  distinguished  Soldier  who  once  spent  a 
few  days  in  the  Menelaus  said  that  her  officers  were 
like  a  knight  and  his  squires  in  the  days  of  chivalrj^ 
and  the  midshipmen,  he  declared,  habitually  said 
"  St.  Peter  "  when  they  meant  "  Sir  Peter."  Charles 
was  so  much  anno37ed  at  that,  that  it  must  have  been 
very  nearly  true:  and  whether  he  ever  said  it  or 
not,  there  is  no  doubt  that  St.  Peter  was  his  patron 
saint. 

He  had  a  fresh  proof  of  this  soon  after  the  fight 
at  Ciotat.  On  the  25th  of  June  the  Admiral  sent  a 
frigate  to  take  the  place  of  the  Menelaus,  and  it  was 
known  at  once  that  she  brought  sailing  orders  for 


San   Stefano  i8i 

Sir  Peter,  because  he  began  to  write  letters  for  home, 
and  told  his  officers  that  they  had  better  do  the 
same.  An  hour  later  he  sent  for  Charles  and  asked 
him  how  old  he  was  and  how  many  years'  service 
he  had.  These  were  not  difficult  questions  to  answer, 
but  Charles  knew  in  a  flash  what  they  meant,  and 
his  heart  thumped  so  that  he  could  hardly  speak 
steadily.  To  be  made  a  lieutenant  it  was  necessary 
to  be  over  eighteen,  to  have  been  more  than  six 
years  on  the  books,  and  to  pass  an  examination 
conducted  by  a  board  of  post-captains.  Charles  was 
now  eighteen  and  a  half,  and  he  had  served  for  six 
and  a  half  j^ears.  "  Verj^  good,"  said  Sir  Peter,  "  then 
there  are  three  things  that  I  should  like  you  to  do. 
First,  I  think  you  should  write  to-day  to  the  Navy 
Office  to  get  your  certificate  of  service  made  out  and 
sent  to  you.  Then  I  should  like  you  to  enter  your- 
self for  six  months'  duty  as  master's  mate  in  this 
ship.  We  shall  be  making  prizes  soon,  I  hope,  and 
some  of  them  ma}'  have  to  be  taken  in  to  distant 
ports.  The  third  thing  must  wait  awhile;  but  if 
all  goes  well  I  should  advise  you,  when  we  are  in  port 
or  in  the  fleet  again,  to  ask  to  go  before  a  board 
of  examiners." 

You  will  think  perhaps  that  Charles  was  over- 
whelmed with  joy;  this  was  certainly  the  greatest 
thing  that  had  ever  yet  happened  to  him — his 
captain,  his  hero.  Sir  Peter  himself,  thought  him 
worthy  of  promotion.  He  felt  like  a  new  man,  with 
a  new  career  opening  before  him.  But  it  was  just 
that  that  made  him  almost  inclined  to  draw  back. 


i82  San   Stefano 

When  an  officer  was  promoted,  it  was  almost  always 
a  vacancy  in  another  ship  that  was  given  him. 

"  Thank  you,  Sir  Peter,"  Charles  said;  "  I  will  do 
everything  you  are  good  enough  to  suggest;  and 
I  am  most  grateful,  but  .  .  .  but  that  will  mean 
leaving   the  Menelaus." 

Sir  Peter  looked  at  him  very  kindly.  "  We  must 
all  part  some  day,"  he  said;  "  meanwhile  go  and 
write  that  letter." 

Charles  was  entered  as  master's  mate  that  same 
day,  and  early  next  morning  the  frigate  sailed  for 
Palermo,  with  orders  to  cruise  afterwards  between 
the  islands  of  Ponza  and  Elba.  A  week  later,  on 
August  7th,  as  she  was  tacking  northwards  with 
a  light  wind,  she  sighted  a  gun  brig  off  Monte 
Argentario,  a  big  headland  which  stands  right  out 
on  the  west  coast  of  Italy  and  forms  the  bay 
of  Orbetello.  The  brig  was  not  in  a  position  to  get 
into  the  bay,  so  she  ran  for  the  island  of  Giglio 
opposite,  where  there  was  a  fortified  harbour.  By 
the  time  she  was  safely  moored  it  was  late  in  the 
afternoon;  the  Menelaus  reconnoitred  the  harbour 
in  hope  of  finding  it  suitable  for  a  night  attack,  but 
the  batteries  on  the  island  all  began  firing  at  once, 
and  as  the  dusk  fell  the  whole  coast  was  alive  with 
alarm  lights.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done  that 
night,  and  next  morning  at  daybreak  the  brig  was 
sighted  with  two  smaller  vessels  running  for  the 
mainland.  The  frigate  made  all  sail  to  cut  them  off, 
but  when  she  was  seen  to  be  gaining  the  Frenchmen 
hauled  up  for  the  port  of  San  Stefano  in  Orbetello 


San   Stefano  183 

Bay.  Sir  Peter  was  determined  to  have  them  out, 
and  at  once  reconnoitred  the  harbour,  but  the 
appearance  of  it  was  not  encouraging.  The  ships 
were  moored  within  half  musket  shot  of  the  shore, 
the  brig  with  six  cables ;  and  the  shore  was  defended 
by  two  batteries,  one  of  two  guns  and  one  of  foiir,  a 
tower  with  one  long  gun,  and  a  citadel  with  fourteen. 

Evidently  a  surprise  would  be  the  most  likely 
kind  of  attack  for  such  a  strong  position.  The 
Menelaus  pretended  to  be  no  longer  bold:  she  stood 
out  to  sea  as  if  the  game  was  up,  and  in  a  few  hours 
was  out  of  sigh't  beyond  the  island  of  Monte  Cristo. 
She  gave  the  enemy  the  rest  of  that  day  and  the 
whole  of  the  next  to  forget  her,  but  that  was  not 
nearly  long  enough.  When  she  ran  down  again  on 
the  night  of  the  9th,  and  sent  her  boats  into  the 
harbour,  they  were  signalled  at  once,  though  it  was 
nearly  midnight,  and  so  hot  a  fire  was  opened  that 
Sir  Peter  saw  it  could  not  be  faced  without  the  help 
of  the  frigate's  guns.  He  called  off  his  men  and 
again  stood  out  to  sea,  planning  a  fresh  attack  for 
two  days  later. 

The  new  plan  was  this:  the  Me-nelaus  was  to 
enter  the  harbour  after  dark  and  lie  off  ready  to 
engage  the  attention  of  the  citadel.  The  four-gun 
battery  on  the  hillside,  which  contained  three  very 
big  guns — forty-two-pounders — and  would  be  in  a 
position  to  rake  the  frigate  as  well  as  the  boats,  was 
to  be  attacked  by  a  landing-party  of  marines.  If  they 
were  successful  the  cutting-out  party  would  then 
make  a  dash  for  the  brig:    and  with  luck  the  whole 


184  San   Stefano 

affair  would  be  over  before  daylight.  One  more 
point  was  noted  in  the  despatch  afterwards  sent 
home  by  the  Admiral.  "  The  service  being  of  a  most 
desperate  nature,  to  which  in  the  event  of  failure 
an  imputation  of  rashness  might  attach,  Sir  Peter 
resolved  to  lead  the  attack  himself."  He  accordingly 
put  the  ship  in  charge  of  the  first  lieutenant,  Row- 
land Mainwaring,  and  ordered  lieutenants  Crease  and 
Pierson,  with  all  the  midshipmen  and  mates  and  130 
seamen,  to  go  with  him  in  the  gigs  and  cutters;  the 
forty  marines  under  their  own  lieutenants,  Beynon 
and  Wilcocks,  were  to  have  the  launch,  with  an 
eighteen-pounder  carronade  mounted  in  the  bow. 
Finally,  to  avoid  any  possible  mistakes  in  the  dark, 
the  different  parties  were  instructed  to  use  a  sign 
and   countersign — "  Nelson  "    and   "  Wellington." 

Nothing  now  remained  but  to  whistle  up  a  suffi- 
cient wind,  and  that  seemed  less  hopeful  as  time 
went  on.  The  nth  of  August  was  cloudless  and 
almost  windless.  At  4  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
the  frigate  was  scarcely  moving.  But  Mr.  Ruther- 
ford, the  master  who  had  succeeded  Mr.  Cunningham, 
was  prepared,  as  he  said,  to  fetch  a  wind  from  the 
sky  if  he  couldn't  find  one  on  the  water — he  got  up 
his  sky-sail  masts  and  assured  everybody  that  all 
would  be  right  at  the  right  time.  At  7  o'clock  he 
set  royals,  royal  studding-sails,  skysails,  and  moon- 
sails,  and  as  the  twilight  fell  the  frigate  began  to 
move  towards  Orbetello  Bay  like  a  phantom  float- 
ing over  the  still  water.  At  8.30  the  boats  were 
lowered  very  quietly;    at  10  they  were  still  more 


San    Stefano  185 

quietly  amied.  Lights  began  to  come  out  all  along 
the  shore;  overhead  there  were  stars  but  no  moon. 
The  Menelaus  now  entered  the  bay  in  dea.d  silence. 
Sanderson,  master's  mate  of  the  ship,  was  at  the 
wheel;  the  master  himself  was  forward,  standing 
close  to  Charles,  who  was  heaving  the  lead  from 
the  larboard  fore-chains  and  whispering,  instead  of 
cr^dng,  the  depth  of  the  soundings.  At  11  the  ma- 
rines were  put  into  the  launch  and  rowed  off  to  a 
point  about  150  5^ards  from  the  heavy  battery. 
Before  midnight  the  other  four  boats  were  lying  off, 
waiting  for  them  to  make  their  attack.  They  got 
ashore  with  the  greatest  caution,  but  it  was  very 
slow  work,  and  i  o'clock  struck  before  they  were 
ready  to  move.  At  that  moment  Charles,  who  was 
in  the  last  boat  with  lieutenant  Pierson,  saw  a  flash 
straight  beyond  the  landing-place,  and  the  sound  of 
the  shot  was  followed  by  a  wild  noise  of  shouting 
from  the  sentinel  who  had  fired  it.  Another  shot 
answered  from  the  slope  above,  and  more  shouting. 
Then  over  the  still  water  Beynon's  voice  could  be 
heard  quietly  and  very  distinctly  giving  the  order 
to  charge.  A  voile}'  immediately  flashed  out  from 
above,  which  seemed  to  Charles  near  enough  and 
heavy  enough  to  destroy  the  whole  party,  but  he 
knew  a  moment  after  that  it  had  not  done  so,  for 
it  was  followed  by  more  shouting  in  the  fort  itself, 
among  which  English  voices  could  be  distinguished 
quite  plainly.  The  men  in  the  boats  became  desper- 
ately keen  to  know  how  the  fight  was  going:  at 
last  one  of  them  shouted  "  Nelson,"  and  a  big  voice 


i86  San   Stefano 

from  the  fort  answered  "  Wellington."  The  saOors 
all  replied  together  and  were  again  answered  from 
above;  for  several  minutes  the  bay  and  the  hillside 
echoed  and  re-echoed  "  Nelson  " — "  Wellington  " — 
"  Nelson,"  till  the  marines,  having  spiked  all  the 
guns  and  picked  up  their  wounded  men,  came  down 
to  the  shore  and  were  re-embarked. 

By  this  time  the  news  had  reached  the  citadel,  and 
lights  were  being  hung  out  on  the  brig  to  direct  their 
fire;  but  before  the  boats  came  within  range  the 
frigate  opened  on  the  town  with  her  broadside.  She 
was  too  far  off  either  to  do  much  damage  or  to  run 
much  risk  as  long  as  it  was  dark;  but  she  kept  the 
troops  in  the  citadel  busy,  making  shots  at  the  flash 
of  her  guns,  and  Sir  Peter's  men  had  only  to  face  the 
musketry  fire  from  the  shore,  which  was  wild  and 
harmless.  They  boarded  the  brig  immediately  and 
cut  her  adrift;  there  was  not  a  breath  of  wind 
stirring,  so  Sir  Peter  set  to  work  to  tow  her  out  with 
two  boats.  The  other  two  he  sent  to  destroy  a 
bombard  which  had  been  run  on  shore  and  deserted 
by  her  crew.  Pierson  and  Charles  were  in  one  of 
these  two  boats,  and  Finucane  and  Monroe  in  the 
other.  They  took  some  time  over  their  job,  for  they 
had  to  scuttle  the  bombard — to  burn  her  would  have 
been  to  give  the  enemy  too  good  a  light. 

Up  to  this  time  they  had  been  completely  success- 
ful, but  now  came  a  very  anxious  half -hour.  The 
enemy,  finding  that  their  ships  were  lost,  began  to 
fire  at  them,  and  as  they  knew  their  position  pretty 
exactly   they   made   rather   better   shooting.      The 


San    Stefano  187 

towing-cable  of  the  brig  was  immediately  cut  in 
two  by  a  round  shot,  and  as  soon  as  the  loss  was 
made  good  the  sharp  swish  of  grape-shot  was  heard 
upon  the  water.  Pierson's  men  rowed  their  hardest 
and  got  clear,  but  Finucane's  boat  was  struck 
in  the  stem,  and  Charles  knew  that  some  one  was 
hit  by  the  sound  of  the  orders  which  he  heard 
being  given.  No  questions  were  asked;  both  boats 
went  on  at  full  speed.  Charles  began  to  think  gloomy 
thoughts:  he  remembered  that  dawn  would  be 
coming  soon,  and  there  was  not  a  puff  of  wind  to 
carr\^  the  Menelaus  and  her  prize  out  of  range. 

At  that  moment  fortune  changed  again:  unex- 
pectedly, miraculously,  a  fine  breeze  sprang  up,  and 
when  Charles  sighted  the  brig  she  was  getting  under 
sail,  and  Sir  Peter  was  making  straight  for  the 
frigate.  He  was  at  the  gangway  to  receive  the 
other  boats,  inquiring  as  each  came  aboard  what 
casualties  they  had  had.  In  the  first  three  there 
had  been  only  one  seaman  killed  and  one  wounded; 
but  when  Finucane's  turn  came,  he  said  in  a  slow 
steady  voice:  "  We  have  had  a  terrible  misfortune, 
sir;    we  have  lost  Monroe." 

Sir  Peter  made  no  reply:  he  took  the  dead  mid- 
shipman in  his  arms  and  knelt  to  support  him, 
feeling  his  heart,  listening  for  his  breatliing,  and 
even  calling  him  by  his  name.  The  men  brought 
battle  lanterns  and  stood  round  in  a  wide  circle; 
over  the  water  the  guns  of  the  citadel  went  on 
flashing  and  booming.  No  one  paid  any  attention 
to  them;  every  one  looked  intently  at  the  surgeon 


i88  San   Stefano 

who  was  now  kneeling  too.  Sir  Peter  was  sure, 
desperately  sure,  that  there  was  a  faint  sign  of  life; 
the  surgeon,  after  a  very  careful  examination,  said 
that  it  was  too  late  to  hope.  Sir  Peter  rose  to  his 
feet.  "  I  will  not  give  him  up,"  he  said,  and  he 
ordered  the  dead  boy  to  be  carried  to  his  own  cabin 
and  laid  in  his  own  cot.  Then  he  stood  still  for  a 
moment  to  regain  control  over  himself. 

Before  he  looked  up  again  the  brig  ran  alongside 
and  touched  with  a  slight  shock;  the  boatswain  in- 
stantly grappled  her  to  the  frigate's  quarter,  and  the 
two  ships  began  to  move  slowly  ahead  together.  Sir 
Peter  raised  his  head  and  saw  what  was  being  done; 
he  saw  also  Charles  and  Finucane  watching  him 
like  two  dogs.  Very  quietly  he  asked  Charles  to  pro- 
vision the  prize,  take  ten  men  aboard,  and  sail  her 
into  port.  Then  he  gripped  Finucane  by  the  arm. 
and  walked  aft  with  him;  Charles  went  about  his 
own  business  with  a  feeUng  of  great  weariness.  Day 
broke  as  the  two  ships  left  the  bay. 

Six  days  later  the  brig  came  safely  into  the  har- 
bour of  Valetta  where  the  Menelaus  was  already 
moored.  Charles  went  aboard  to  report  himself; 
Sir  Peter  was  ashore,  the  first  lieutenant  told  him, 
and  he  added:  "  He  was  hard  hit  over  that  affair; 
he  has  not  smiled  since."  And  in  fact  it  was  long 
before  Charles  saw  his  captain  smile  again. 

{From  "  The  Book  of  the  Blue  Sea,"  1914.) 


Craven  189 

CRAVEN 

(.Mobile  Bay,  1864) 

Over  the  turret,  shut  in  his  iron-clad  tower, 

Craven  was  conning  his  ship  through  smoke  and 
flame ; 

Gun  to  gun  he  had  battered  the  fort  for  an  hour. 
Now  was  the  time  for  a  charge  to  end  the  game. 

There  lay  the  narrowing  channel,  smooth  and  grim, 
A  hundred  deaths  beneath  it,  and  never  a  sign; 

There  lay  the  enemy's  ships,  and  sink  or  swim. 
The  flag  was  flying,  and  he  was  head  of  the  line. 

The  fleet  behind  was  jamming;  the  monitor  hung 

Beating  the  stream ;  the  roar  for  a  moment  hushed ; 
Craven  spoke  to  the  pilot ;  slow  she  swung ; 

Again  he  spoke,  and  right  for  the  foe  she  rushed. 
Into  the  narrowing  channel,  between  the  shore 

And  the  sunk  torpedoes  lying  in  treacherous  rank ; 
She  turned  but  a  yard  too  short ;  a  muifled  roar, 

A  mountainous  wave,  and  she  rolled,  righted,  and 
sank. 

Over  the  manhole,  up  in  the  iron-clad  tower. 

Pilot  and  Captain  met  as  they  turned  to  fly : 
The  hundredth  part  of  a  moment  seemed  an  hour. 

For  one  could  pass  to  be  saved,  and  one  must  die. 
They  stood  like  men  in  a  dream :   Craven  spoke. 

Spoke  as  he  lived  and  fought,  with  a  Captain's  pride, 
"  After  you,  Pilot  ":  the  pilot  woke, 

Down  the  ladder  he  went,  and  Craven  died. 


190  Stonewall   Jackson 

All  men  ■praise  the  deed  and  the  manner,  hut  we — 
We  set  it  apart  from  the  pride  that  stoops  to  the  proud, 

The  strength  that  is  supple  to  serve  the  strong  and  free. 
The  grace  of  the  empty  hands  and  promises  loud : 

Sidney  thirsting  a  humbler  need  to  slake, 

Nelson  waiting  his  turn  for  the  surgeon's  hand, 

Lucas  crushed  with  chains  for  a  comrade's  sake 
Otdram  coveting  right  before  command. 

These  were  paladins,  these  were  Craven's  peers. 
These  with  him,  shall  be  crowned  in  story  and  song. 

Crowned  with  the  glitter  of  steel  and  the  glimmer  of  tears. 
Princes  of  courtesy,  merciful,  proud  and  strong. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON 

Let  us  talk  for  a  little  now  about  Jackson  himself, 
and  what  he  was  like  to  those  who  knew  him.  Any 
man,  if  he  is  lucky,  may  have  adventures,  and  yet 
remain  quite  an  average  man,  nothing  out  of  the 
common.  A  great  man  is  great,  not  because  he 
happens  to  have  adventures,  but  because  he  is  the 
cause  of  adventures;  to  meet  him  is  in  itself  an 
adventure,  and  makes  a  change  in  those  who  experi- 
ence it.  You  may  be  sure  that  no  one  who  knew 
Jackson  ever  forgot  him:  even  those  who  have  only 
read  his  life  remember  him  continually.  Soldiers 
learn  from  it  how  great  campaigns  may  be  fought; 
the  rest  of  us  see  how  a  great  life  may  be  lived. 


Stonewall   Jackson  191 

Naturalh',  as  Jackson  was  a  soldier,  it  is  from 
soldiers  that  we  hear  most  about  him.  They  tell  us 
that  he  was  a  really  great  general,  and  it  is  easy  to 
believe  them,  for  they  have  plenty  of  proofs  to  show. 
After  the  battle  of  Bull  Run  he  was  placed  in  com- 
mand of  a  separate  army  to  co-operate  in  the  defence 
of  the  Shenandoah  Valley.  In  the  "  Valley  Cam- 
paign," as  it  was  called,  he  showed  in  a  very  high 
degree  the  power  of  guessing  what  the  enemy  was 
most  likely  to  do,  and  at  the  same  time  concealing 
what  he  was  going  to  do  himself.  If  you  look  at  a 
good  map  of  that  famous  valley,  you  will  see  that  it 
is  a  most  convenient  place  for  playing  hide-and-seek 
with  an  army.  The  mountains  run  in  four  great  lines, 
each  consisting  of  narrow  ridges,  with  gaps  in  them 
at  irregular  intervals.  Between  these  four  ridges 
there  are,  of  course,  three  parallel  valleys;  the 
middle  one  of  the  three  is  the  Shenandoah  valley, 
with  the  river  Shenandoah  in  it,  and  also  an  extra 
clump  of  mountains  near  the  upper  end  called  the 
Massanuttons.  The  whole  place  is  rather  like  three 
great  streets  with  smaller  alleys  or  passages  leading' 
through  from  one  to  another  at  unequal  distances 
You  can  imagine  how  difficult  it  was  to  catch  a 
fellow  like  Jackson  in  such  a  country,  even  with  a 
superior  force  or  two  superior  forces.  When  pressed, 
he  could  always  leave  one  street  and  slip  through 
into  the  next;  and  if  the  enemy  tried  to  occupy  a 
town,  he  could  slip  back  again  another  way  and  turn 
the  position.  On  one  occasion  he  and  his  whole  army 
suddenly  disappeared  from  sight  altogether,  going 


192  Stonewall    Jackson 

east  as  was  supposed;  but  they  dodged  back  west 
by  the  next  side-alley  and  upset  all  calculations.  In 
this  way  he  constantly  puzzled  and  defeated  superior 
armies  which  were  trying  to  combine  and  crush  him ; 
his  soldiers  said  that  "  he  knew  every  hole  and  corner 
of  the  valley  as  if  he  had  made  it  himself,"  and  he 
bewildered  and  tired  the  enemy  till  their  officers 
resigned  and  their  men  deserted.  In  thirty-eight  days 
he  marched  400  miles,  fought  three  battles  and  a 
number  of  smaller  engagements,  and  won  them  all. 
He  took  3500  prisoners  and  put  3500  more  out  of 
action,  besides  capturing  nine  guns  and  10,000  rifles. 

Of  course,  to  do  all  this  he  had  to  work  his  men 
hard:  they  did  so  much  marching  and  at  such  a  pace 
that  they  were  called  "  the  foot  cavalry."  They 
complained,  but  they  admired  him  for  it;  and  they 
expressed  both  their  complaint  and  their  admiration 
by  saying  that  Moses  took  forty  years  to  get  the 
Children  of  Israel  through  the  wilderness,  but  Old 
Jack  would  have  double-quicked  them  through  in 
three  days  on  half  rations!  In  the  Valley  Campaign 
and  afterwards,  as  at  ChanceUorsville,  he  would  now 
and  then  march  clean  round  his  enemy  in  a  manner 
that  seemed  simply  impossible,  by  all  the  rules  of 
war.  His  men  made  a  legend  out  of  these  flank 
marches.  "  Stonewall  died,"  they  said  "  and  two 
angels  came  down  from  Heaven  to  take  him  back 
with  them.  They  went  to  his  tent.  He  was  not  there. 
They  went  to  the  hospital.  He  was  not  there.  They 
went  to  the  outposts.  He  was  not  there.  They 
went  to  the  prayer-meeting.      He  was  not  there. 


Stonewall   Jackson  193 

So  they  had  to  return  without  him;  but  when 
they  reported  that  he  had  disappeared,  they  found 
that  he  had  made  a  flank  march  and  reached 
Heaven  before  them."  His  enemies  must  often  have 
wished  that  that  flank  march  had  taken  place  earher. 
His  men  too  were  a  bit  afraid  of  him  at  first: 
he  was  so  secret  and  so  stern.  They  never  knew 
where  they  were  going  or  why.  They  got  used  to 
this  at  last,  and  when  any  one  asked,  "  Where  are 
you  going?"  they  only  laughed  and  said,  "We 
don't  know,  but  Old  Jack  does."  His  sternness 
they  could  not  laugh  about:  it  was  no  joke.  He 
never  let  off  a  man  condemned  to  death  for  deser- 
tion. On  one  occasion  there  were  four  of  these  cases 
and  the  chaplain  made  a  very  strong  appeal  to  him. 
"  General,"  he  said,  "  consider  your  responsibility 
before  the  Lord.  You  are  sending  these  men's  souls 
to  hell."  Jackson  answered  in  his  severest  tones, 
"  That,  sir,  is  my  business:  do  you  do  yours!  "  and 
he  took  him  by  the  shoulders  and  put  him  through 
the  door.  It  was  not  that  he  wished  to  be  harsh: 
when  a  case  for  mercy  was  put  before  him  properly 
he  considered  it  carefully,  but  always  from  a  military 
point  of  view.  Once  his  officers  begged  lum  to  pardon 
a  soldier  sentenced  to  be  shot  for  striking  his  captain. 
"  To  pardon  this  man,"  he  said,  "  would  be  to  encour- 
age insubordination  throughout  the  army,  and  to 
ruin  our  cause.  Still,  I  will  review  the  whole  case, 
and  no  man  will  be  happier  than  myself  if  I  can 
reach  the  same  conclusions  as  you  have  done." 
He  decided  that  it  was  impossible  to  pardon:  dis- 

G 


194  Stonewall   Jackson 

cipline  was  the  weak  point  of  the  armies  in  that  war. 
They  were  continually  tempted  to  plunder,  for  the 
commissariat  was  often  disorganised.  But  this  Jack- 
son was  determined  they  should  not  do :  he  hated  the 
"  f rightfulness  "  of  war,  and  was  always  chivalrous 
in  protecting  non-combatants.  On  one  of  his  marches 
he  forbade  his  men  to  enter  any  private  house:  one 
of  them  not  only  entered  a  house  but  used  insulting 
language  to  the  women  in  it.  When  this  was  re- 
ported to  the  General  he  had  the  man  tried  by  drum- 
head court-martial  and  shot  in  twenty  minutes. 
This  sternness  was  merciful,  and  it  was  entirely 
successful.  It  is  recorded  to  the  honour  of  the  Con- 
federate armies  that  they  were  almost  invariably 
courteous  and  considerate  to  the  country  people  on 
both  sides  of  the  border,  and  that  though  they  were 
often  half -starved  and  ragged,  and  sometimes  bitterly 
provoked,  they  never  gave  man,  woman,  or  child 
reason  to  dread  their  coming. 

This  does  not  in  the  least  imply  that  Jackson  was 
weak:  it  only  means  that  he  was  not  a  Hun.  He 
knew  how  to  make  war.  "  War,"  he  once  said, 
"  means  fighting.  The  business  of  the  soldier  is  to 
fight.  Armies  are  not  called  out  to  dig  trenches,  to 
throw  up  breastworks,  to  live  in  camps:  but  to  find 
the  enemy  and  strike  him,  to  invade  his  country  and 
do  him  all  possible  damage  in  the  shortest  possible 
time.  This  will  involve  great  destruction  of  life  and 
property  while  it  lasts:  but  such  a  war  will  of 
necessity  be  one  of  short  continuance,  and  so  would 
be  an  economy  of  life  and  property  in  the  end.    To 


Stonewall   Jackson  195 

move  swiftly,  strike  vigorously,  and  secure  all  the 
fruits  of  victory  is  the  secret  of  successful  war."  He 
never  burnt  a  town  or  shot  a  non-combatant. 

But  he  loved  war:  he  loved  fighting:  he  loved 
danger  and  the  excitement  of  a  charge.  He  loved 
especially  the  peculiar  yell  which  his  men  had  in- 
vented— "  the  rebel  yell."  One  night  he  heard  it 
raised  at  a  tattoo  in  his  camp;  he  listened  silently 
until  it  died  away,  and  then  said,  half  to  himself, 
"  That  was  the  sweetest  music  I  ever  heard."  It 
goes  without  saying  that  his  courage  in  battle  was 
perfect.  At  Cedar  Run  he  saw  his  men  breaking:  he 
drew  his  sword,  and  rushed  into  the  middle  of  the 
fight,  shouting,  "  Rally,  men,  and  follow  me!  " 
General  Taliaferro  rode  up  and  told  him  he  had  no 
business  to  be  where  he  was :  he  gave  in  to  him  and 
went  back,  but  the  work  was  done  and  the  men  were 
charging.  He  could  be  beautifully  cool,  too ;  he  used 
to  go  reconnoitring  for  himself,  and  was  found  once 
peering  right  into  a  wood  full  of  the  enemy's  sharp- 
shooters, who  were  firing  continually.  Another  time 
he  was  again  reconnoitring  in  the  fields,  with  Lieu- 
tenant Smith,  when  a  sharpshooter  began  firing  from 
some  tall  weeds  at  the  two  officers.  The  bullet 
passed  between  their  heads:  Jackson  said  with  a 
smile  to  his  companion,  "  Mr.  Smith,  you  had  better 
go  to  the  rear;  they  may  shoot  you."  He  then 
deliberately  finished  his  reconnoitring  and  went  back 
to  his  position. 

It  goes  without  saying,  too,  that  his  patriotism 
was  perfect.    The  American  Civil  War  was  a  terrible 


196  Stonewall   Jackson 

struggle,  but  it  had  one  unique  and  redeeming 
characteristic:  it  was  a  volunteer  war,  fought  for 
none  but  patriotic  reasons;  both  sides  were  equally 
devoted,  and  both  had  a  righteous  cause.  The  North 
fought  for  the  unity  of  the  nation,  and  afterwards 
for  the  abolition  of  slavery ;  the  South  fought  to  pre- 
serve their  independence.  Jackson  felt  his  position 
as  a  Southerner  keenly.  "  Certainly,"  he  said,  "  no 
man  has  more  that  should  make  life  dear  to  him 
than  I  have,  in  the  affection  of  my  home;  but  I 
do  not  desire  to  survive  the  independence  of  my 
country,"  And  when  he  made  his  farewell  speech  to 
his  brigade  after  Bull  Run,  he  ended  by  hoping, 
in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  that  they  would  be  "  handed 
down  to  posterity  as  the  First  Brigade  in  this  our 
Second  War  of  Independence."  The  regiments 
assented  with  a  tornado  of  cheers. 

His  popularity  was  universal.  His  men  cheered 
him  whenever  they  saw  him;  his  charger.  Little 
Sorrel,  learned  to  gallop  away  whenever  the  noise 
began.  When  the  troops  in  a  bivouac  heard  a  distant 
sound  of  shouting,  they  always  said,  "Boys!  look 
out!  here  comes  old  Stonewall  or  an  old  hare!  " 
One  soldier  adds  the  explanation,  "these  being  the 
only  individuals  who  never  failed  to  bring  down  the 
whole  house."  He  was  famous  among  civilians  too: 
at  Martinsburg  the  ladies  took  so  many  souvenirs 
from  his  charger's  mane  and  tail  that  a  sentry  had 
to  be  placed  before  the  stable  door.  Even  the  enemy 
admired  him — when  he  took  Harper's  Ferry  the 
Federals  hned  the  street  to  see  him ;  and  once,  on  the 


Stonewall   Jackson  197 

Rappahannock,  they  actually  cheered  him.  His  own 
men  were  cheering  him  as  usual,  and  some  of  the 
Federal  pickets,  just  over  the  water,  called  across  to 
ask  who  was  there.  "  General  StonewaU  Jackson," 
said  the  sentry.  "  Hurrah  for  Stonewall  Jackson!  " 
cried  the  enemy,  and  both  sides  went  on  cheering 
together.  The  last  time  he  had  such  a  triumph  was 
when  he  lay  mortally  wounded  at  Chancellorsville, 
and  Lee's  army  made  its  victorious  charge  on  the 
entrenchments  to  the  crj.-  of  "  Remember  Jackson!  " 
The  hold  he  had  upon  his  fellow-countrymen  was 
shown  by  their  sayings  after  his  death — the  most 
remarkable,  perhaps,  occurred  in  the  prayer  of  the 
chaplain  at  the  unveiling  of  the  Jackson  monument 
in  New  Orleans.  It  ended  with  these  words :  "When 
in  Thine  inscrutable  decree  it  was  ordained  that  the 
Confederacy  should  fail,  it  became  necessary  for 
Thee  to  remove  Thy  servant  Stonewall  Jackson." 
Another  monument,  a  bronze  statue,  was  long  after- 
wards placed  above  Jackson's  grave  at  Lexington; 
his  men  were  old  by  then,  but  they  came  in  numbers 
to  the  unveiling  and  gave  the  "  rebel  yell  "  once 
more.  Two  officers  were  silent,  and  each  saw  that 
the  other  was  weeping.  "  Fm  not  ashamed  of  it, 
Snowden,"  said  one.  "  Nor  I,  old  boy,"  replied  the 
other.  Last  of  all,  the  columns  marched  past  the 
monument.  One  old  soldier  of  the  Stonewall  Brigade 
turned  round  at  the  cemetery  gate,  and  waved  his 
hat.  "  Good-bye,  old  man,  good-bye,"  he  called  back, 
"  we've  done  all  we  could  for  you:  Good-bye!  " 
{From  "  The  Book  of  the  Thin  Red  Line,"  1915.) 


198  Saving   an   Army 


SAVING    AN    ARMY 

The  retirement  was  then  continued.  The  impedi- 
menta had  been  sent  away  at  2  a.m.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  grumbling  among  the  men;  but  it  was 
generally  believed  that  the  French  were  beginning 
to  hold  the  enemy  on  the  right,  and  that  a  stand 
would  be  made  all  along  the  line  in  the  next  position, 
at  Le  Cateau,  Sir  Horace's  face  was  watched  as  a  kind 
of  moral  barometer.  "  He  looks  a  winner,"  one  man 
was  heard  to  say,  "  and  that's  enough  for  me."  But 
beneath  the  General's  imperturbable  coolness  and 
courtesy  there  were  serious  anxieties.  The  two  army 
corps  had  up  to  now  been  in  fairly  regular  touch — 
they  had  actually  converged  on  Bavai.  But  to-day 
they  had  to  separate  rather  widely.  Sir  Horace 
passing  to  the  west  of  the  Foret  de  Mormal  and  Sir 
Douglas  to  the  east,  in  order  to  avoid  the  thick 
wood  and  uncertain  roads.  It  was  arranged,  at  Sir 
Horace's  request,  that  the  start  should  be  early, 
and  orders  were  issued  for  the  force  to  be  all  south 
of  the  Valenciennes-Maubeuge  road  by  5.30  a.m.; 
but  the  1st  Corps  found  it  impossible  to  keep  time 
as  accurately  as  they  wished,  and  it  was  8.30  a.m. 
before  their  last  brigade  got  away.  Even  then  they 
were  delayed.  Sir  Horace,  of  course,  knew  nothing 
of  the  reasons;  but  he  found  the  gap  between  his 
own  corps  and  Sir  Douglas's  steadily  widening,  till 
the  two  were  some  eight  miles  apart.  Lord  Ernest 
Hamilton  explains  that  this  was,  in  fact,  due  to 


Saving  an   Army  199 


(< 


scares,"  or  reports  of  rearguard  attacks,  which 
made  it  necessary  for  some  of  the  ist  Corps  to  halt, 
or  even  to  go  back  at  times.  The  Oxfords,  for  in- 
stance, had  to  retrace  the  distance  from  Leval  to 
Pont-sur-Sambre,  only  to  find  nothing  doing.  The 
reports  were  probably  spread  by  Germans,  dis- 
guised as  British  officers. 

The  situation  therefore  was  becoming  anxious, 
and  after  midday  a  fresh  disappointment  had  to  be 
met.  Sir  Horace  had  spent  the  morning  directing 
the  retirement  from  his  motor,  and  went  finally 
about  3.30  P.M.  to  Le  Cateau  to  see  Sir  John  French. 
He  failed  to  find  him,  for  Sir  John  had  started  at 
2  P.M.  for  St.  Quentin,  twenty-five  miles  off.  From 
Sir  Archibald  Murray,  however,  the  Chief  of  the 
Staff,  he  received  Sir  John's  orders  not  to  make 
a  stand  at  Le  Cateau,  but  to  continue  retiring.  The 
General  Headquarters  were  even  then  in  the  act 
of  preparing  to  evacuate  Le  Cateau — clerks,  typists 
and  orderlies  swarming  off  in  motor-lorries  to  follow 
the  Commander-in-Chief  to  St.  Quentin.  Sir  Horace 
spent  the  next  few  hours  in  selecting  a  position 
in  case  he  had  to  fight  next  day,  and  then  drove  to 
Bertry,  where  his  own  Headquarters  were  to  be. 
On  the  way  he  saw  some  of  General  Sordet's  French 
cavalry  corps  moving  across  to  our  left  rear.  They 
had  been  asked  to  help  us  during  the  retirement, 
but  their  horses  had  been  too  tired — they  did  their 
best  for  us  next  day,  when  they  were  most  needed. 

The  evening  was  spent  in  the  difficult  task  of 
finding  out   the   exact   whereabouts   of  the   troops, 


200  Saving  an   Army 

many  of  whom  had  covered  thirty  miles,  and  whose 
rearguards  were  desperately  engaged.  It  was  not 
until  1.30  A.M.  that  this  was  done;  and  Sir  Horace, 
by  way  of  a  night's  rest,  had  to  solve  two  problems. 
First,  how  was  he  to  deal  with  General  AUenby's 
cavalry'  division.  General  Snow's  4th  Division  of 
infantry  and  General  Drummond's  19th  Brigade 
— which  were  none  of  them  under  his  command 
though  actually  fighting  near  his  corps  at  the 
moment?  And  secondly,  in  face  of  the  orders  he 
had  received,  not  to  fight,  how  was  he  to  save  his 
weary  force  from  being  crushed  in  the  act  of  retiring — 
for  the  Germans  were  now  close  up  and  outflanking 
him  on  both  sides?  He  quickly  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  it  was  an  occasion  when  he  would  be 
justified  in  disobeying  his  orders;  and  taking  the 
cavalry,  the  4th  Division  and  the  19th  Brigade 
under  his  command,  he  issued  instructions  for  a 
battle  at  dawn. 

In  the  early  morning  of  August  26,  news  came  in 
that  the  ist  Corps  had  been  attacked  after  dark  at 
Landrecies  and  had  inflicted  a  severe  check  upon 
the  enemy.  A  Prussian  division  had  made  a  forced 
march  right  through  the  Foret  de  Mormal,  hoping 
to  smash  up  our  troops  in  their  night  quarters, 
when  they  were  tired  and  off  guard.  They  came 
up  against  the  wrong  men — Landrecies  was  occu- 
pied by  the  4th  Brigade  of  Guards.  The  most  vivid 
account  of  the  fight  is  that  sent  home  by  Lieutenant 
Percy  Wyndham  of  the  3rd  Coldstream.  "  Had  a 
hurried  tea  and  at  7   o'clock  went  out  with   the 


Saving  an   Army  201 

company  (No.  3)  to  guard  all  the  approaches  to 
the  town.  We  were  told  there  were  some  English 
and  French  troops  who  would  want  to  come  through. 
Hardly  was  it  dark,  about  8  p.m.,  and  raining,  when 
we  heard  a  body  of  men  approaching.  We  challenged 
them  to  halt;  they  came  on,  answering  in  French. 
We  told  them  again  to  halt;  they  were  then  only 
ten  or  twenty  yards  off,  and  with  a  yowl  they  sprang 
forward  and  yelled  '  Deutschland ! '  After  that, 
words  fail  me.  Hell  was  let  loose.  Our  men  lay 
down  flat  and  poured  volle}^  after  volley  into  them. 
I  flattened  myself  against  a  wall  and  quaked.  In 
about  three  minutes  it  subsided  and  awful  groans 
filled  the  air.  Then  little  Charles  Monk  came  out 
and  said,  '  Come  on.  No.  3,  line  the  road!  '  and  we 
all  gathered  round.  Another  company  came  up  in 
support,  and  David  (Bingham)  got  his  machine- 
guns  into  action.  Nothing  can  describe  what  fol- 
lowed. They  kept  charging  up  to  us,  and  we  replied 
with  volley  after  volley.  The  men  were  marvellous, 
quite  cool,  and  obeyed  all  our  fire  orders  to  the 
letter.  I  have  never  known  anything  like  the  bursts 
of  fire.  They  then  brought  up  a  gun,  at  200  yards, 
and  fired  lyddite  point  blank  at  us!  My  word,  it 
was  a  caper.  They  kept  coming  on,  and  at  about 
12.30  made  a  final  desperate  effort.  I  thought  we 
never  could  stick  it,  but  we  did.  I  just  said  my 
prayers  as  I  lay,  nose  buried  in  the  ground,  and 
waited  for  my  bit  of  shell  or  bullet.  But,  glory  be 
to  God!  it  never  came.  We  drove  them  right  back 
with  our  fire  and  they  never  came  on  again,  and  they 


202  Saving   an   Army 

tell  me  2000  of  them  never  will  again.  .  .  .  Our 
losses  were  119  killed  and  wounded." 

This  news  was  cheerful  enough  in  itself,  but  to  the 
General  of  the  2nd  Corps  it  meant  that  he  could 
expect  no  help  from  his  colleague.  Sir  Douglas  Haig 
was  evidently  delayed  far  to  the  north  and  east  of 
him,  and  von  Kluck  was  forcing  a  wedge  in  between 
them.  Sir  Horace  must  play  the  game  out  alone — • 
he  was  in  the  tightest  of  tight  places,  for  he  had  his 
orders,  and  to  obey  them  literally  meant  destruction. 
He  knew  how  foot-weary  his  men  were,  and  how 
near  to  discouragement;  if  he  called  upon  them  to 
retreat  once  more,  with  a  confident  enemy  close 
upon  their  heels,  the  retreat  must  almost  certainly 
become  a  rout.  It  would  be  no  one's  fault — the  army 
would  be  annihilated  by  an  overwhelming  force; 
but  it  would  be  annihilated,  and  the  Empire  would 
be  in  mourning  for  fifty  years. 

The  position  was  desperate ;  how  could  it  be  saved  ? 
By  military  skill,  by  high  courage,  by  dogged  en- 
durance? All  these  qualities  were  necessary;  but 
all  put  together,  they  were  not  sufficient — they 
could  not  make  one  corps  the  equal  of  three,  or  save 
it  when  surrounded  from  being  forced  to  surrender 
or  collapse.  What  was  needed  first  of  all  was  character. 
This  is  where  games  are  the  miniature  of  war  and  of 
any  active  life.  We  have  all  known  good  cricketers 
who  could  see  clearly  and  make  beautiful  shots  when 
nothing  much  depended  on  them,  but  who  lost 
their  form  when  a  rot  set  in,  and  went  to  pieces  with 
the  rest.     The  great  General  is  the  one  who  never 


Saving  an   Army  203 

loses  his  form.  Even  if  he  is  called  upon  to  face  some 
awful  moment  on  which  great  issues  hang,  he  will 
still  see  clearly,  decide  unhesitatingly,  and  play  to 
win;  and  this  he  will  do  because  he  has  the  power 
to  be  always  himself,  to  draw  upon  the  vital  reserve 
which  we  call  character.  None  of  our  Generals  had 
more  of  this  power  than  Sir  Horace  Smith-Dorrien ; 
he  saved  us  in  our  greatest  danger  by  being  simply 
himself.  We  shall  always  read  the  history  of  those 
black  days  happily,  because  they  are  not  a  tale  of 
hesitation  or  passive  acceptance  of  disaster,  but  an 
example  of  how,  by  decision,  by  initiative,  and  by 
determination,  drawn  from  the  stores  of  his  own 
past,  a  commander  may  turn  to-day's  defeat  into 
to-morrow's  victory. 

Before  daybreak  on  August  26,  Sir  Horace  had 
made  his  two  decisions.  The  first  was  that  he  must 
be  master  of  his  weapons.  He  sent  word  to  General 
Allenby  and  General  Snow  that  the  cavalry  and  the 
4th  Division  would  come  under  his  command.  He 
made  no  bones  about  it,  nor  did  they.  It  was  not  the 
moment  to  stand  on  etiquette  or  wait  for  official 
confirmation.  The  4th  Division  was  ordered  to  form 
the  left  of  the  line  from  Haucourt  to  Caudry,  with 
the  3rd  next  it  in  the  centre  from  Caudry  to  Trois- 
villes,  and  the  5th  (with  the  19th  Brigade)  on  the 
right  at  Le  Cateau.  The  cavalry  were  widely  scat- 
tered; the  brigade  and  a  half  near  Caudry  were  to 
fall  back  on  Ligny  and  try  to  guard  the  left  flank, 
the  two  and  a  half  brigades  at  Catillon  were  to  move 
to  the  support  of  the  right  flank. 


204  Saving  an   Army 

The  second  decision  was  the  great  one — the  one 
for  which  Horace  Smith-Dorrien  was  bom  and  bred. 
He  made  it  in  the  small  hours  of  the  26th,  and 
shortly  afterwards  wired  to  General  Headquarters 
to  tell  the  Commander-in-Chief  what  he  had  decided. 
The  reply  he  received  was  that  the  Commander- 
in-Chief  wished  to  speak  to  him  on  the  telephone: 
so  at  7  A.M.  he  walked  into  the  railway  station  at 
Bertry  and  asked  to  be  put  through  to  the  British 
General  Headquarters  at  St.  Quentin.  He  soon 
heard  the  voice  of  General  Henry  Wilson,  Assistant 
Chief  of  the  Staff  to  the  Commander-in-Chief,  and 
at  once  explained  to  him  the  state  of  affairs  as  he 
saw  it.  "My  orders  are  not  to  fight  but  to  keep  on 
retiring.  My  men  are  too  weary  to  march;  before 
they  can  retire  I  must  fight ;  a  blow  to  the  Germans 
is  the  only  way  of  staving  off  a  disaster;  and  the 
battle  has  actually  begun."  General  Wilson  repHed, 
"  Sir  John  did  not  intend  you  to  fight,  and  he  wishes 
you  to  break  off  the  battle  and  retire  at  the  earliest 
moment  possible.  He  cannot  send  you  any  support 
— the  ist  Corps  is  incapable  of  movement.  His 
opinion  is  that  in  not  retiring  you  are  risking  a 
Sedan."  Sir  Horace  was  prepared  to  take  this  risk. 
"  We  shall  put  up  a  real  grand  fight,"  he  said,  "  but 
with  my  men  too  weary  to  march,  both  my  flanks  in 
the  air,  and  a  vastly  superior  number  of  the  enemy 
against  us,  no  doubt  there  is  a  possibility  of  our 
being  surrounded."  General  Wilson  then  suggested 
that  Sir  John  French  might  be  willing  to  come  back 
and  take  over  the  actual  command.    But  Sir  Horace 


Saving  an   Army  205 

had  no  desire  to  avoid  a  responsibility  that  was 
rightly  his  own.  "  I  strongly  deprecate  that,"  he 
replied.  "  The  battle  is  now  going  on,  on  such  an 
extended  front  that  the  troops  would  not  know  of 
Sir  John's  presence  on  the  field,  and  it  is  not  as  if 
I  had  any  large  reserves  which  he  could  handle. 
After  all,  this  is  only  the  commencement  of  a  great 
war,  and  if  a  disaster  should  occur,  it  is  essential 
for  the  good  of  the  cause  we  are  fighting  for  that 
the  Commander-in-Chief  should  be  free  to  go  to 
England  and  bring  over  another  army.  But  my  one 
chance  is  to  fight  and  I  am  going  to  do  it."  General 
Wilson  could  not  conceal  his  admiration.  "  Well," 
he  said,  "  your  voice  is  the  only  cheerful  thing  I've 
heard  for  three  days." 

Sir  Horace,  as  we  have  seen,  had  already  made 
his  preparations.  His  instructions  for  the  fight  had 
been  issued  to  all  the  troops  at  4  a.m.,  and  at  2  a.m. 
he  had  sent  to  General  Sordet  an  urgent  message 
saying,  "  I  am  going  to  fight,  and  I  hope  you  will 
be  able  to  cover  my  left."  Sordet  sent  back  no  reply, 
but  in  the  hour  of  need  he  was  there. 

By  this  time  the  enemy  had  got  the  artillery  of  at 
least  four  army  corps  into  position.  Our  guns  were 
outnumbered,  five  to  one;  but  they  made  a  magni- 
ficent fight  of  it  and  inflicted  huge  losses  on  the 
Germans  advancing  in  mass.  So  did  our  infantry; 
they  made  and  lay  in  shallow  trenches,  some  few  of 
which  had  been  hastily  and  imscientifically  dug  for 
them  by  devoted  Frenchwomen,  and  they  were 
desperately  tired;   but  they  shot  as  no  other  troops 


2o6  Saving  an   Army- 

had  ever  shot,  and  for  seven  hours  their  enemies 
went  down  before  them  like  cut  grass.  At  one  time 
the  4th  Division,  on  the  left  flank,  was  forced  back, 
but  by  a  brilhant  counter-attack  they  regained  their 
ground.  Nothing  could  really  shift  them  but  over- 
whelming gun  power.  By  midday  the  main  artillery 
duel  was  over,  and  some  of  our  guns,  especially  of 
the  5th  Division,  were  silenced.  This  was  a  severe 
loss;  for,  to  infantry,  even  the  sound  of  their  own 
guns  is  a  support.  By  2  o'clock  the  5th  Division  had 
been  outflanked,  and  pounded  almost  to  pieces.  At 
2.30  Sir  Horace  received  a  message  from  Sir  Charles 
Fergusson  that  he  feared  his  men  could  stand  it 
no  longer,  and  were  beginning  to  dribble  away.  Sir 
Horace  sent  him  instructions  to  order  the  5th  Divi- 
sion to  retire.  He  had  not  a  word  of  blame  for  them : 
he  knew  they  would  not  fail  him  till  they  were  in 
extremes,  and  he  sent  instructions  to  the  rest  of  the 
troops  what  to  do  in  case  they  fell  back.  His  only 
reserves  were  two  battahons  and  one  battery;  these 
he  had  already  had  to  use  once,  and  now  he  sent 
them  in  again  to  cover  the  retirement. 

For  the  moment  the  General  had  done  his  part; 
the  task  of  carrying  out  his  orders  was  for  his  sub- 
ordinates. I  have  told  you  how  Sir  Horace  took  over 
General  Grierson's  staff:  he  was  fortunate  in  finding 
such  officers,  for  it  was  in  his  judgment  largely  due 
to  this  staff  that  the  British  force  fighting  at  Le 
Cateau  was  able  to  be  withdrawn.  The  Chief  of  Staff 
of  the  2nd  Corps,  Brigadier-General  Forestier- 
Walker,  was  a  man  of  great  nerve  and  ability,  and  a 


Saving  an   Army  207 

very  rapid  worker.  He  had  drawn  up  concise  in- 
structions for  the  retirement  of  the  several  divisions, 
if  such  a  move  should  become  necessary,  and  conse- 
quently every  divisional  commander  and  staff  knew 
exactly  by  what  roads  they  were  to  move,  so  that 
the  danger  of  their  running  into  each  other  and 
getting  blocked  was  provided  against.  Then  the 
head  of  the  Quartermaster-General's  department, 
working  in  with  him,  had  laid  his  plans  for  clearing 
the  road  of  all  unnecessary  impedimenta,  such  as 
food  and  ammunition  columns,  field  ambulances, 
etc.  Thus,  when  the  5th  Division  were  being  forced 
back,  all  that  remained  to  be  done  was  for  the  staff 
to  tell  the  commanders  of  the  other  divisions  to 
conform  to  the  movements  of  the  5th  Division,  which 
had  already  begun  to  retire  by  pre-arranged  roads. 
It  was  now  past  3  o'clock  and  the  5th  Division 
were  coming  back  in  great  disorder.  It  is  best  to  be 
precise  about  this,  because  exaggerated  and  even 
hysterical  descriptions  were  sent  over  to  England 
soon  afterwards.  Admirably  terse  and  well-balanced 
accounts  also  came  in  private  letters;  one  of  the 
best  is  by  Lieutenant  Frederick  Longman  of  the 
4th  Royal  Fusiliers,  one  of  General  Hamilton's 
reserve  battalions.  "  At  i  p.m.,  a  lull — we  all  thought 
we  had  beaten  them  off.  Suddenly  a  tremendous 
burst  of  firing  in  the  centre  of  our  line;  3.30,  order 
for  a  general  retirement.  Then  I  saw  a  sight  I  hope 
never  to  see  again.  Our  line  of  retreat  was  down 
two  roads  which  converged  on  a  village  about  a  mile 
behind  the  position.    Down  these  roads  came  a  mob 


2o8  Saving  an   Army 

— men  from  every  regiment  there,  guns,  riderless 
horses,  hmbers  packed  with  wounded,  quite  unat- 
tended and  lying  on  each  other,  jostling  over  ruts, 
etc.  It  was  not  a  rout,  only  complete  confusion.  This 
was  the  Germans'  chance.  One  battery  of  artillery 
sent  forward,  or  one  squadron  of  cavalry,  would 
have  turned  this  rabble  into  a  complete  rout,  and 
the  whole  army  would  have  been  cut  up  piecemeal. 
Meanwhile,  we  were  the  only  regiment  I  saw  in  any 
order.  We  had  not  been  engaged,  and  had  only  lost 
one  officer  and  about  thirty  men;  we  had  also  had 
a  hot  meal,  so  that  we  were  in  good  condition.  We 
went  back  in  a  succession  of  extended  lines,  in 
absolute  order,  and  formed  up  behind  a  farmhouse 
near  where  the  roads  met.  Here  we  waited  in  mass, 
while  the  rest  of  the  army  streamed  past.  It  was  a 
most  trying  half-hour.  It  seemed  inevitable  that 
they  would  follow  up,  and  then  the  jam  in  that 
village  would  have  been  indescribable — I  have  since 
heard  that  they  had  sustained  fearful  losses,  and 
also  a  division  of  French  cavalry  was  covering  our 
retreat.  WTien  the  rabble  had  got  past  we  moved 
off,  marching  at  attention,  arms  sloped,  fours  dressed, 
etc.,  through  the  village;  7.0  P.M.,  moved  off  again 
and  marched  till  i.o  a.m." 

Sir  Horace  too  saw  this,  and  no  doubt  he  too 
hoped  never  to  see  the  like  again.  But  he  gave  not 
the  least  sign  of  dismay.  His  business  was  to  save 
his  army.  He  had  already  sent  his  car  away,  and 
was  now  on  horseback,  with  some  of  his  staff;  the 
rest  had  gone,  in  accordance  with  a  well-thought- 


Saving  an   Army  209 

out  plan,  to  important  points  on  the  several  roads 
along  which  the  force  was  retiring,  to  maintain 
order  and  direct  those  who  had  lost  their  units.  Sir 
Horace  rode  along  the  line,  and  hearing  very  heavy 
artillery  firing  to  the  westward,  naturally  began  to 
fear  that  the  enemy  were  outflanking  the  4th  Divi- 
sion. To  make  sure  about  this  the  General  with  one 
A.D.C.  galloped  up  a  piece  of  rising  ground,  and 
perceived  with  joy  and  gratitude  that  the  noise  was 
not  that  of  German  guns  only,  but  the  short  sharp 
bark  of  the  inimitable  French  Horse  Artillery. 
Sordet  had  plaj'ed  up,  and  our  left  flank  was  safe. 

Sir  Horace  then  rode  back  to  the  Roman  road — 
the  long  and  dead  straight  road  from  Bavai  to 
Estrees  by  which  the  5th  Division  were  retiring. 
It  was  a  dispiriting  sight,  for  heavy  rain  was  now 
falling,  and  the  men  who  came  staggering  past  were 
so  tired  and  footsore  that  many  threw  away  their 
packs  and  entrenching  tools,  and  some  could  go  no 
further,  but  rolled  over  by  the  roadside  and  were 
dead  asleep  in  a  moment.  The  greater  number 
trudged  on  in  a  solid  mass,  units  all  broken  up  and 
mixed  together,  and  groups  of  men  all  beheving 
that  they  themselves  were  the  sole  survivors  of  their 
regiment.  It  might  be  thought  that  a  General  had 
no  part  to  plsLy  here — Napoleon,  on  a  day  not  un- 
hke  this,  rode  off  with  a  "tout  est  perdu;  sauve 
qui  peut."  Smith-Dorrien  stayed  among  his  men, 
knowing  that  all  was  not  lost,  because  he  had  the 
power  to  handle  them  even  in  extreme  distress. 
An  American  volunteer,  who  was  present,  has  said 


2IO  Saving  an   Army 

the  right  word  ^  about  him  both  here  and  after- 
wards. "  I  speak,"  he  says,  "  with  profound  recog- 
nition of  his  high  attainments  as  a  mihtary  leader, 
and  of  his  great  heart.  Truly,  a  kinder  man  I  have 
never  met."  You  may  imagine  what  it  meant  to 
these  tired  soldiers — tired  a  dozen  times  over,  tired 
with  four  days'  marching  and  fighting,  tired  with 
killing  endless  hordes  of  enemies,  tired  with  facing 
for  nine  hours  an  irresistible  tornado  of  shell  and 
shrapnel — ^to  come  suddenly  upon  this  quiet,  com- 
manding figure  of  their  General.  Here  was  the  head 
of  everything,  the  man  who  must  know  all  that 
there  was  to  know;  yet  he  was  kind,  cheery,  un- 
hurried and  unworried,  walking  his  horse  amongst 
them,  talking  to  them  in  his  cool,  courteous  voice, 
assuring  them  that  all  was  well,  that  the  attack  was 
over,  that  they  had  beaten  their  enemy  to  a  stand- 
still, that  they  were  only  retiring  to  keep  in  hue 
with  the  French  Army  and  to  share  in  the  coming 
advance.  "  Right  ahead,"  he  said  to  one  little  bunch 
after  another.  "  You'll  find  a  lot  more  of  your  bat- 
taHon  further  down  the  road."  For  two  hours  they 
had  the  comfort  of  this  voice,  and  every  minute 
that  passed  proved  the  words  more  true.  There 
was  practically  no  pursuit,  no  rearguard  action: 
guns  were  still  firing,  but  without  effect.  "  Never 
mind  the  guns,"  said  the  General,  "  I'll  look  after 
them;  you  go  quietly  on."  They  did  go  on.  It  was 
a  very  sorry  crowd  that  worked  their  way  back 

>  From  Mons   to    Ypres,   by   Frederic   Coleman   (Sampson 
Low,  Marston,  and  Co.). 


Saving  an   Army  211 

towards  St.  Quentin  that  night,  but  it  was  not  a 
panic-stricken  crowd.     The  staff  backed  up  their 
Commander;    at  the  gate  of  every  field,  and  the 
entrance  of  every  by-lane  stood  an  officer  collecting 
a  certain  battalion  or  brigade.    "  This  way  Suffolks, 
this  way  Manchesters,  all  this  way  the  14th  Bri- 
gade."    It  was  a  tremendous  piece  of  work;    more 
officers  were  borrowed  to  help  the   staff,  and  the 
motor-drivers  took  a  hand  as  well.     The  General 
himself,  having  done  what  he  could  for  them,  went 
on  at  9  P.M.  to  report  to  his  Commander-in-Chief. 
He  reached  St.  Quentin  at  10  p.m.  only  to  find 
that  General  Headquarters  were  no  longer  there— 
the  Commander-in-Chief  had  gone  back  at  midday 
to  Noyon,   thirty-five   miles   further  and   fifty-five 
miles  behind  where  the  battle  was  raging  at   Le 
Cateau.     There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  follow. 
Sir  Horace  had  left  his  staff  on  the  road  near  Estr6es, 
helping  to  keep  the  troops  moving  and  straighten 
out  blocks  in  the  fine  of  march.    He  now  took  Cap- 
tain Bowley  and  Prince  Henri  d'Orleans  in  his  car 
and  ran  down  to  Noyon,  after  arranging  with  Colonel 
Maclnnes,  the  Director  of  Railways  at  St.  Quentin, 
for  some  trains  to  pick  up  the  lamest  of  the  men. 
His  hurried  journey  was  not  a  good  substitute  for 
a  night's   rest.      It  was  long  past   midnight   when 
they  reached  Noyon  and  woke  up  the  Commander- 
in-Chief.     Reports  of  the  direst  kind  had  reached 
him — he  had  been  convinced  that  the  2nd  Corps 
was  no  longer  in  existence,  and  Sir  Horace's  un- 
defeated  serenity   seemed   to   him   at    first   almost 


212  Saving  an   Army 

outrageous.  When  he  realised  that  the  fight  had,  in 
fact,  achieved  its  object,  and  that  the  three  divi- 
sions were  being  put  in  order  to  rejoin  the  line,  his 
scepticism  was  overcome  and  he  spoke  in  warm 
terms  of  Sir  Horace's  achievement. 

The  journey  back  was  still  a  sleepless  one;  there 
was  plenty  to  think  of.  When  Sir  Horace  reached 
St.  Quentin  once  more,  at  5.30  a.m.,  the  day's  work 
was  waiting  for  him.  His  staff  had  come  in  an  hour 
before  and  were  asleep  on  the  floor.  The  bulk  of 
the  troops  were  still  out  on  the  road;  they  had  to 
be  brought  in,  built  up  into  an  army,  and  started 
again  on  their  march  southward.  This  was  a  heavy 
day's  work,  but  it  was  not  an  impossible  one;  the 
men  were  unbeaten — their  General  had  told  them 
so  and  they  believed  him,  for  they  saw  that  he  was 
unbeaten  himself.  His  divisional  commanders  and 
brigadiers  were  worthy  of  him;  they  had  worked 
magnificently  all  night  and  their  regimental  officers 
had  backed  them  magnificently  in  turn.  In  one  of 
the  finest  narratives  of  the  retreat  ^  there  is  a  story 
which  tells  us  just  what  we  should  wish  to  know 
about  our  men  and  their  officers — how  even  in  the 
hardest  times  they  can  keep  their  kindliness  and 
self-restraint.  "  Soon  after  sunrise  we  came  up  with 
two  of  our  ambulance  wagons,  and  one  of  our  filter 
water-carts.  The  wounded  were  in  such  a  state  of 
of  exhaustion  with  the  long  trek  and  the  awful 
jolting  of  the  wagons,  that  Major  Fawcett  decided 
to  find  some  farm  where  water  could  be  boiled.    He 

*  Quoted  by  Mr.  John  Buchan,  History  of  the  War,  vol.  ii. 


Saving   an   Army  213 

had  hardly  gone  when  a  battahon  of  exhausted 
infantry  came  up,  and,  as  soon  as  they  saw  the  water- 
carts,  made  a  dash  for  them.  Hastily  I  rode  up  to 
them  and  told  them  that  there  was  very  Uttle  water 
left  in  the  carts,  and  that  it  was  needed  for  their 
wounded  comrades.  '  I  am  thirsty  myself,'  I  said, 
'  and  I  am  awfully  sorry  for  you  chaps,  but  you 
see  how  it  is ;  the  wounded  must  come  first.'  '  Quite 
right,  Sir,'  was  the  ready  response;  '  didn't  know 
it  was  a  hospital  water-cart.'  And  without  a  mur- 
mur they  went  thirsty  on  their  way." 

Meanwhile,  in  St.  Quentin,  the  General  was  busier 
and  cheerier  than  ever.  Our  American  volunteer 
saw  a  great  deal  of  him  this  day,  for  he  and  his  car 
were  lent  to  him  by  Lord  Loch.  He  says,  "  It  was 
good  to  see  Smith-Dorrien's  face  and  hear  his  voice. 
I  had  heard  much  of  him  during  those  days  and  never 
was  he  spoken  of  save  in  terms  of  affection.  ...  It 
was  of  inestimable  value  that  morning  in  St.  Quentin 
— Smith-Dorrien's  smile.  It  put  heart  into  many  a 
man.  ...  It  was  a  treat  to  watch  the  General. 
Kindly  and  cheery,  his  personality  pervaded  every- 
thing about  him.  .  .  .  Staff,  officers,  soldiers,  every 
one — all  were  parts  of  the  whole.  It  was  a  lesson, 
watching  him  saving  the  scattered  pieces  of  his 
corps  and  welding  them  into  a  fighting  force  that 
would  be  all  the  better  for  the  awful  experience 
through  which  they  had  passed." 

This  last  bit  sounds  an  optimistic  opinion,  but  it 
is  strongly  confirmed  by  a  remark  of  Lieutenant 
Longman's,  in  a  letter  written  a  day  or  two  later. 


214  Saving  an   Army 

"  At  first  my  shoulders  used  to  get  rather  tired  with 
my  load;  now  I  have  nearly  doubled  the  load  and 
don't  feel  it,  and  I  can  keep  going  all  day  quite 
happily,  and  if  necessary  most  of  the  night.  Most  of 
the  men  are  very  fit  too.  I  would  much  rather  go 
into  action  with  the  twenty  men  I  have  left  than  the 
fifty-nine  I  started  with,  as  I  can  trust  all  of  them  to 
the  last  inch  now,  and  before  there  were  some  semi- 
shirkers  and  many  unfit."  Two- thirds  of  the  platoon 
gone — that  was  a  dangerously  high  rate  of  loss,  if  it 
was  anything  like  general.  The  first  reports  which 
came  in  caused  Sir  Horace  great  anxiety;  the  3rd 
Division  alone  believed  their  casualties  to  be  150 
officers  and  over  5000  other  ranks.  Another  constant 
worry  was  the  false  news  of  rearguards  hard  pressed 
and  throwing  in  their  last  reserves.  Captain  Bowley 
was  sent  back  in  the  car  to  ascertain  the  facts  and 
reported  all  the  stories  to  be  untrue.  Altogether  the 
day  was  a  trying  one  to  the  nerves,  and  many  officers 
felt  it  severely  after  the  long  bombardment  of  the 
day  before,  and  the  still  longer  march.  The  worst 
moment  of  all  came  late  at  night  on  the  27th,  when 
an  order  arrived  from  General  Headquarters  which, 
however  kindly  it  was  meant,  very  nearly  had  a 
disastrous  effect.  The  retirement  was  to  be  con- 
tinued at  once;  and  not  only  that,  but  ammuni- 
tion, officers'  kits,  etc.,  were  to  be  taken  from  the 
wagons  and  destroyed,  to  make  room  for  carrying 
weary  men.  It  was  naturally  supposed  that  news 
of  some  fresh  attack  had  come  in  to  General  Head- 
quarters.    The  effect  on  nerves  shaken  by  heavy 


Saving  an   Army  215 

fighting  and  want  of  sleep  was  bad,  and  might  have 
been  very  bad.  But  panic  and  Smith-Dorrien  could 
not  exist  together;  he  quietly  countermanded  the 
order  on  his  own  responsibility  and  all  was  well — 
except  for  some  of  the  4th  Division,  who  had  already 
burnt  eleven  wagon-loads. 

On  this  night,  the  27th,  the  troops  reached  Ham. 
The  retreat  was  not  over,  but  the  danger  point  was 
past.  The  enemy  had  hovered  about  the  rearguards 
with  cavalry  and  horse  artillery,  but  his  infantry  had 
been  too  heavily  punished  to  come  on  again ;  Smith- 
Dorrien  had  snatched  their  chance  from  them.  It  is 
impossible  to  overestimate  his  achievement.  "  The 
extrication  of  the  Le  Cateau  army,"  says  Lord  Ernest 
Hamilton,^  "  from  a  position  which  on  paper  was  all 
but  hopeless,  was  undoubtedly  a  very  fine  piece  of 
generalship."  And  Mr.  John  Buchan  says:  "  No 
praise  can  be  too  high  for  the  services  rendered  by  the 
Commander  of  the  2nd  Corps  at  Le  Cateau."  The 
voice  of  the  army  is  not  less  emphatic.  One  of  Sir 
Horace's  own  generals  wrote:  "  If  the  staff  work 
went  smoothly  and  well,  it  was  only  because  we  had 
a  chief  who  knew  his  own  mind,  never  hesitated  about 
momentous  decisions  (Le  Cateau  at  4  a.m.!),  but 
shouldered  all  responsibility  and  never  fussed.  I 
have  since  then  often  talked  with  other  staffs,  and 
have  realised  how  they  have  been  hampered  even  in 
the  smallest  routine  work,  and  it  has  made  me  very 
grateful  to  the  finest  Commander  I  have  ever  worked 
under."  Finally  Sir  John  French  wrote  in  his  des- 

'  The  First  Seven  Divisions,  p.  65. 


2i6  Sacramentum   Supremum 

patch:  "I  say  without  hesitation  that  the  saving  of 
the  left  wing  of  the  army  under  my  command  on 
the  morning  of  August  26  could  never  have  been 
accomphshed  unless  a  Commander  of  rare  and  un- 
usual coolness,  intrepidity  and  determination  had 
been  present  to  personally  conduct  the  operation." 

In  our  military  history  we  have  long  kept  one 
picture  apart  from  all  the  rest — the  great  Duke  riding 
in  twilight  behind  the  52nd  as  they  made  the  final 
advance  across  the  field  of  Waterloo.  We  shall  never 
see  a  moment  of  more  complete  triumph.  But  we 
have  now  another  picture  to  set  beside  that — the 
quiet,  indomitable  figure  in  the  rain,  facing  the  full 
stream  of  defeat.  A  very  different  scene,  but  the  two 
go  well  together ;  for  they  both  show  what  the  spirit 
of  man  can  do  against  material  odds. 

{From  "  Tales  of  The  Great  War,"  1915.) 


SACRAMENTUM    SUPREMUM 

Ye  that  with  me  have  fought  and  failed  and  fought 

To  the  last  desperate  trench  of  battle's  crest, 
Not  yet  to  sleep,  not  yet;  our  work  is  nought; 

On  that  last  trench  the  fate  of  all  may  rest. 
Draw  near,  my  friends ;  and  let  your  thoughts  be  high ; 

Great  hearts  are  glad  when  it  is  time  to  give; 
Life  is  no  hfe  to  him  that  dares  not  die. 

And  death  no  death  to  him  that  dares  to  hve. 

Draw  near  together ;  none  be  last  or  first ; 
We  are  no  longer  names,  but  one  desire; 


Nonneboschen   Wood  217 

With  the  same  burning  of  the  soul  we  thirst. 
And  the  same  wine  to-night  shall  quench 
our  fire. 

Drink !  to  our  fathers  who  begot  us  men. 
To  the  dead  voices  that  are  never  dumb; 

Then  to  the  land  of  all  our  loves,  and  then 
To  the  long  parting,  and  the  age  to  come. 


NONNEBOSCHEN   WOOD 

The  climax  of  this  stupendous  battle  came,  after 
three  days  of  comparative  quiet,  on  Wednesday, 
November  11.  For  the  final  stroke  at  Ypres  the 
Kaiser  had  brought  up  the  ist  and  4th  Brigades 
of  the  Prussian  Guards — thirteen  battalions  in  all, 
including  the  ist  and  3rd  Foot  Guards,  the  Kaiser 
Franz  Grenadier  Regiment  No.  2,  and  the  Koenigin 
Augusta  Grenadier  Regiment  No.  4.  In  the  twi- 
light of  early  morning  the  huge  column  advanced 
with  all  the  pomp  of  their  parade  step  against  our 
saHent  at  Gheluvelt. 

At  this  moment  the  52nd,  who  had  been  reUeved 
and  sent  north  on  the  9th,  were  in  reserve  at  Verloe- 
renhoek,  on  the  Ypres-Zonnebeke  road.  On  the 
morning  of  the  nth  they  were  unpacking  their 
equipment  for  the  first  time  for  weeks,  and  preparing 
for  a  rest,  when  an  urgent  message  reached  them: 
"  The  line  is  broken — the  Prussian  Guards  are 
through."  The  few  available  supports  were  des- 
perately needed.     The  52nd  covered  the  two  miles 


2i8  Nonneboschen   Wood 

to  Externest  as  fast  as  they  could  go:  they  arrived 
to  find  a  strange  and  bev/ildering  scene  before  them. 
In  the  angle  of  the  cross-roads  near  the  rear  of  the 
Nonneboschen  wood  they  saw  some  French  guns, 
silent  and  apparently  deserted;  across  the  road 
behind  them  were  some  English  guns,  also  deserted 
— their  gunners  were  deployed  in  front  with  rifles — 
"  the  only  men,"  said  their  commander,  "  between 
the  Germans  and  Ypres — thank  God  you've  come!  " 

The  wood  itself  was  full  of  Prussians,  who  had 
broken  the  ist  Division  by  sheer  weight  and  flowed 
over  their  trenches;  many  of  them  were  now  visible 
on  the  near  edge  of  the  wood,  but  they  seemed  un- 
certain of  their  direction  and  they  had  not  yet  dis- 
covered the  silent  guns.  Colonel  Da  vies  had  the 
chance  of  a  hundred  years  before  him,  and  he  took 
it  on  the  instant.  He  established  the  Regimental 
Headquarters  on  the  right  front  of  the  French  guns, 
at  the  point  where  the  road  ran  nearest  to  the  rear 
angle  of  the  wood;  D  Company  (Captain  Tolson 
and  Lieutenant  Vere  Spencer)  he  stationed  for  the 
moment  behind  the  guns  as  a  reserve.  B  Company 
(Lieutenant  Baines)  and  C  Company  (2nd  Lieu- 
tenants Tylden-Pattenson  and  Titlierington)  were 
to  charge,  while  A  Company  (Captain  Dillon,  Lieu- 
tenant Pepys  and  2nd  Lieutenant  Pendavis)  kept 
up  a  covering  fire  on  their  left  flank. 

The  four  companies  mustered  perhaps  350  in  all; 
of  the  Prussian  Guards  there  were  about  800,  and 
the  officers  of  the  52nd  as  they  charged  were  struck 
by  the  immense  superiority  of  the  enemy  in  phy- 


Nonneboschen   Wood  219 

sical  bulk — our  men  appeared  to  be  only  half  their 
size.^  But  there  the  superiority  ended:  the  Prus- 
sians had  already  met  the  ist  Guards  Brigade,  and 
though  their  weight  had  carried  them  through  the 
trenches  they  had  lost  their  sense  of  direction,  their 
cohesion,  and  some  part  of  their  resolution.  They 
were  now  face  to  face  with  the  finest  Light  Infantry 
in  the  world:  it  is  Httle  shame  to  them  that  their 
courage  and  their  discipline  were  not  equal  to  their 
need.  In  the  hundredth  year  since  Waterloo  the  52nd 
were  not  out  to  flinch  or  fumble;  they  manoeuvred 
and  fought  with  the  swift  precision  which  alone 
could  honour  the  memory  of  Moore  and  Colbome. 

The  open  ground  to  be  covered  was  some  300 
yards;  as  Baines  and  Tylden-Pattenson  crossed  it 
with  their  slender  converging  hues  the  enemy  had 
their  chance,  but  Dillon's  fire  pinned  them  in  their 
covert;  then  when  the  two  companies  had  rushed 
the  edge  of  the  wood  and  were  entering  the  dense 
undergrowth,  he  joined  in  on  the  left,  and  as  the 
thin  hne  went  forward,  stretched  to  its  utmost, 
Tolson  came  on  with  his  company  as  second  line. 
The  whole  attack  went  with  the  old  Light  Division 
click;  even  the  wood  of  Redinha  was  not  cleared 
"  in  more  gallant  style "  than  this.  The  giants 
made  no  effective  stand;  the  drive  was  carried 
through  without  a  check,  our  men  enjoying  it,  said 
one  of  them,  "as  if  we  were  all  beating  the  wood 
for  pheasants,  at  the  double."    The  comparison  was 

>  Lieutenant   Titherington    buried    three   who   were   over 
seven  feet  in  height. 


220  Nonneboschen   Wood 

curiously  apt:  for  an  officer  of  the  ist  Division  has 
described  how  a  remnant  of  the  ist  Brigade,  hearing 
the  firing  in  the  wood,  had  posted  themselves  by  their 
old  trenches  on  the  other  side,  and  waited,  like  the 
line  of  guns  at  a  "  hot  corner."  When  the  beaters 
approached,  the  first  sign  of  life  was  a  rise  of  phea- 
sants on  the  edge  of  the  wood,  followed  by  a  rush 
of  a  few  Germans,  who  were  all  shot  down  as  they 
left  the  covert.  The  52nd  saw  nothing  of  this;  they 
drove  straight  out  to  the  front,  and  found  there  a 
great  number  of  killed  and  wounded,  with  a  few 
scattered  men  of  the  ist  Division,  and  further  off 
a  confused  mass  of  Prussians  occupying  trenches 
under  cover  of  artillery  fire.  Here,  when  the  wood 
was  practically  cleared,  B  Company  lost  their  only 
officer,  Lieutenant  Baines,  wounded  by  shrapnel 
in  the  right  shoulder.  He  was  able,  however,  to 
walk  the  two  miles  back  to  Regimental  Headquarters, 
escorted  by  a  Prussian  officer  and  five  other  prisoners 
of  the  Guards,  who  carried  his  equipment  for  him. 
To  an  English  officer  of  another  regiment,  who 
met  them  at  the  cross-roads,  this  procession  was, 
perhaps,  the  most  surprising  sight  of  his  life. 

The  front  companies  of  the  52nd  were  now  joined 
by  some  of  the  Northamptonshire  Regiment  on  the 
right  and  some  of  the  Connaught  Rangers  and  the 
5th  Field  Company,  R.E.,  on  the  left.  Led  by  Captain 
Dillon,  they  charged  the  Germans,  and  took  one  line 
of  trenches,  with  some  prisoners.  They  would  have 
taken  the  second  line  too,  but  for  the  fire  of  the 
French  guns,  which  kept  shelling  the  trenches  until 


Nonneboschen   Wood  221 

dark,  in  ignorance  of  our  progress.  The  regiment 
was  now  collected  and  entrenched  for  the  night,  to 
the  west  of  the  Polygon  wood.  The  casualties  for 
the  day  were  extraordinarily  slight:  2nd  Lieut. 
Jones  and  four  men  were  killed,  and  Lieutenant 
Baines  and  seventeen  men  wounded. 

With  this  counter-attack  of  the  52nd  the  crisis  of 
the  first  battle  of  Ypres  had  passed;  the  Kaiser's 
final  attempt  of  November  17  never  came  so  near 
to  success.  The  fight  of  the  nth  assured  us  of  vic- 
tory, and  the  victory  was  in  the  main  our  own.  It 
was  made  possible  by  the  co-operation  of  the  French 
and  Belgians,  "  and  no  allies,"  says  Mr.  Buchan, 
"  ever  fought  in  more  splendid  accord.  But  the 
most  critical  task  fell  to  the  British  troops,  and  not 
the  least  of  the  gain  was  the  assurance  it  gave  of 
their  quality.  They  opposed  the  blood  and  iron  of 
the  Germans  with  a  stronger  blood  and  a  finer 
iron.  .  .  .  The  steady  old  regiments  of  the  line 
revealed  their  ancient  endurance."  That  is  well 
said:  it  is  enough.  A  regiment  like  the  52nd  cannot 
surpass  their  ancient  record;  but  they  can  add  to 
it,  and  keep  it  fresh  in  the  memory  and  admira- 
tion of  their  countrymen.  When  the  first  lists  of 
honours  appeared  in  1914,  those  who  know  the 
history  of  the  Light  Division  noted  with  a  familiar 
pride  that  of  the  eight  company  officers  who  led 
the  52nd  at  Ypres  five  received  the  Distinguished 
Service  Order  and  another  the  Military  Cross.  No 
other  single  battalion  in  the  army  equalled  or  nearly 
equalled  this  achievement;    yet  even  these  are  but 


222  Nonneboschen   Wood 

the  honours  of  the  living,  and  they  are  no  brighter 
than  the  unclaimed  honours  of  the  dead. 

Nor,  perhaps,  is  it  any  honours  that  the  officers 
of  such  a  regiment  most  desire.  It  is  easy  to  believe 
that  they  would  value  most  the  acknowledgment,  in 
a  few  plain  words  from  a  tried  commander,  that 
their  great  tradition  had  been  kept.  If  so,  the  52nd 
have  already  had  their  wish.  When  Major-General 
Haking,  C.B.,  relinquished  the  command  of  the  5th 
Brigade,  he  wrote  a  letter  of  thanks  to  the  regiment 
in  these  words: 

"  The  rapid  and  skilful  manoeuvring  of  the  bat- 
talion during  the  retirement  from  Mons  and  the 
subsequent  advance  to  the  Aisne,  their  defence 
during  the  long  occupation  of  the  latter,  and,  above 
all,  their  splendid  attacks  and  defence  round  Ypres, 
are  well  known  throughout  the  whole  Army,  and 
will  later  on  become  a  matter  of  history.  The  batta- 
lion has  always  been  celebrated  for  its  attack  at 
Waterloo,  but  in  my  opinion  it  will  in  future  be 
distinguished  above  others  for  its  magnificent  attack 
near  Ypres.  ...  I  cannot  tell  you  what  satisfaction 
it  gives  me  to  be  able  to  record  in  this  brief  manner 
the  heroic  doings  of  the  battalion  during  the  present 
campaign,  the  value  of  which  cannot  be  exaggerated." 

{From  "  The  Story  of  the  Oxfordshire  and 

Buckinghamshire  Light  Infantry,"  1915.) 


St.   George's   Day  223 

ST.   GEORGE'S   DAY 

Ypres,  1915 

To  fill  the  gap,  to  bear  the  brunt 

With  bayonet  and  with  spade, 
Four  hundred  to  a  four-mile  front 

Unbacked  and  undismayed — 
What  men  are  these,  of  what  great  race, 

From  what  old  shire  or  town. 
That  run  with  such  goodwill  to  face 

Death  on  a  Flemish  down  ? 

Let  he  !  they  bind  a  broken  line  : 

As  men  die,  so  die  they. 
Land  of  the  free  !  their  life  was  thine, 

It  is  St.  George's  Day. 

Yet  say  whose  ardour  bids  them  stand 

At  bay  by  yonder  bank, 
Wliere  a  boy's  voice  and  a  boy's  hand 

Close  up  the  quivering  rank. 
WTio  under  those  all-shattering  skies 

Plays  out  his  captain's  part 
With  the  last  darkness  in  his  eyes 

And  Domum  in  his  heart  ? 

Let  he,  let  he  !  in  yonder  line 
All  names  are  burned  away. 

Land  of  his  love  !  the  fame  be  thine. 
It  is  St.  George's  Day. 


24  Spirit   of   Submarine   War 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  SUBMARINE  WAR 

As  with  men,  so  with  nations — none  becomes  utterly 
base  on  a  sudden,  or  utterly  heroic.  Their  vices  and 
their  virtues  are  the  harvesting  of  their  past. 

Let  us  take  a  single  virtue,  like  courage,  which 
is  common  to  all  nations  but  shows  under  a  different 
form  or  colour  in  each,  and  so  becomes  a  national 
characteristic,  plainly  visible  in  action.  A  historical 
study  of  British  courage  would,  I  believe,  show  two 
facts:  first,  that  the  peculiar  quality  of  it  has  per- 
sisted for  centuries ;  and,  secondly,  that  if  our  people 
have  changed  at  all  in  this  respect,  they  have  only 
changed  in  the  direction  of  greater  uniformity.  Once 
they  had  two  kinds  of  courage  in  war;  now  they 
have  but  one,  and  that  by  far  the  better  one.  In  the 
old  days,  among  the  cool  and  determined  captains 
of  our  race,  there  were  always  a  certain  number  of 
hot-heads — "  men  of  courage  without  discipline,  of 
enthusiasm  without  reason,  of  will  without  science." 
The  best  of  them,  like  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  had  the 
luck  to  die  conspicuously,  in  their  great  moments, 
and  so  to  leave  us  an  example  of  the  spirit  that  defies 
odds,  and  sets  men  above  the  fear  of  death.  The  rest 
led  their  men  into  mad  adventures,  where  they 
perished  to  the  injury  of  their  cause.  Most  English- 
men can  understand  the  pure  joy  of  onset,  the  freedom 
of  the  moment  when  everything  has  been  given  for 
the  hope  of  winning  one  objective;  but  it  has  been 
the  more  characteristic  way  of  our  people — at  any 


Spirit   of   Submarine   War  225 

rate  for  the  last  live  centuries — to  double  courage 
with  coolness,  and  fight  not  only  their  hardest  but 
their  best.  From  Cressy  to  Waterloo,  and  from  Mons 
to  Arras,  we  have  won  many  battles  by  standing 
steadily  and  shooting  the  attack  to  pieces.  Charges 
our  men  have  made,  but  under  discipline  and  in  the 
nick  of  opportunity.  The  Black  Prince  charged 
fiercely  at  Poitiers;  but  it  was  only  when  he  had 
broken  three  attacks,  and  saw  his  chance  to  win. 
The  charge  of  the  Worcesters  at  Gheluvelt,  the 
charge  of  the  Oxfords  at  Nonneboschen,  and  a 
hundred  more  like  them,  were  as  desperate  as  any 
"ride  of  death";  but  they  were  neither  reckless 
nor  useless,  they  were  simply  the  heroic  move  to 
win  the  game.  Still  more  is  this  the  rule  at  sea. 
Beatty  at  Jutland,  like  Nelson  and  Collingwood  at 
Trafalgar,  played  an  opening  in  which  he  personally 
risked  annihilation ;  but  nothing  was  ever  done  with 
greater  coolness,  or  more  admirable  science.  The 
perfect  picture  of  all  courage  is,  perhaps,  a  great 
British  warship  in  action;  for  there  you  have, 
among  a  thousand  men,  one  spirit  of  elation,  of 
fearlessness,  of  determination,  backed  by  trained 
skill  and  a  self-forgetful  desire  to  apply  it  in  the 
critical  moment.  The  submarine,  and  the  anti- 
submarine ship,  trawler  or  patrol-boat  are,  on  a 
smaller  scale,  equally  perfect  examples;  for  there 
is  no  hour  of  their  cruise  when  they  are  not  within 
call  of  the  critical  moment.  In  the  trenches,  in  the 
air,  in  the  fleet,  you  will  see  the  same  steady  skilful 
British    courage    almost    universally     exemplified. 

H 


226  Spirit   of   Submarine  War 

But  in  the  submarine  war,  the  disciphne  needed  is 
even  more  absolute,  the  skill  even  more  delicate,  the 
ardour  even  more  continuous  and  self-forgetful;  and 
all  these  demands  are  even  more  completely  fulfilled. 
This  is  fortunate,  and  doubly  fortunate;  for  the 
submarine  war  has  proved  to  be  the  main  battlefield 
of  our  spiritual  crusade,  as  well  as  a  vital  military 
campaign.  The  men  engaged  in  it  have  been  marked 
out  by  fate,  as  our  champions  in  the  contest  of 
ideals.  They  are  the  patterns  and  defenders  of  human 
nature  in  war,  against  those  who  preach  and  practise 
barbarism.  Here — and  nowhere  else  so  clearly  as 
here — the  world  has  seen  the  death-struggle  between 
the  two  spirits  now  contending  for  the  future  of 
mankind.  Between  the  old  chivalry,  and  the  new 
savagery,  there  can  be  no  more  truce;  one  of  the 
two  must  go  under,  and  the  barbarians  knew  it  when 
they  cried  "  Weltmacht  oder  Niedergang."  Of  the 
spirit  of  the  German  nation  it  is  not  necessary  to 
say  much.  Everything  that  could  be  charged  against 
them  has  been  already  proved,  by  their  own  words 
and  actions.  They  have  sunk  without  warning 
women  and  children,  doctors  and  nurses,  neutrals 
and  wounded  men,  not  by  tens  or  hundreds  but  by 
thousands.  They  have  publicly  rejoiced  over  these 
murders  with  medals  and  flags,  with  songs  and 
school  holidays.  They  have  not  only  broken  the 
rules  of  international  law;  they  have  with  un- 
paralleled cruelty,  after  sinking  even  neutral  ships, 
shot  and  drowned  the  crews  in  open  boats,  that  they 
might  leave  no  trace  of  their  crimes.    The  men  who 


Spirit   of   Submarine   War  227 

have  done — and  are  still  doing— these  things  have 
courage  of  a  kind.  They  face  danger  and  hardship 
to  a  certain  point,  though,  by  their  own  account, 
in  the  last  extreme  they  fail  to  show  the  dignity  and 
sanity  with  which  our  own  men  meet  death.  But 
their  peculiar  defect  is  not  one  of  nerve,  but  of  spirit. 
They  lack  that  instinct  which,  with  all  civilised 
races,  intervenes,  even  in  the  most  violent  moment 
of  conflict  or  desperation,  and  reminds  the  combatant 
that  there  are  blows  which  it  is  not  lawful  to  strike 
in  any  circumstances  whatever.  This  instinct — the 
religion  of  all  chivalrous  peoples — is  connected  by 
some  with  humanity,  by  some  with  courtesy,  by 
ourselves  with  sport.  In  this  matter  we  are  all  in 
the  right.  The  savage  in  conflict  thinks  of  nothing 
but  his  own  violent  will ;  the  civilised  and  the  chival- 
rous are  always  conscious  of  the  fact  that  there  are 
other  rights  in  the  world  beside  their  own.  The 
humane  man  forbears  his  enemy ;  the  courteous  man 
respects  him,  as  one  with  rights  like  his  own;  the 
man  with  the  instinct  of  sport  knows  that  he  must 
not  snatch  success  by  destroying  the  very  game 
itself.  The  civilised  nation  will  not  hack  its  way  to 
victory  through  the  ruins  of  human  life.  It  will  be 
restrained,  if  by  no  other  consideration,  yet  at  least 
by  the  recollection  that  it  is  but  one  member  of  a 
human  fellowship,  and  that  the  greatness  of  a  part 
can  never  be  achieved  by  the  corruption  of  the  whole. 
The  German  nature  is  not  only  devoid  of  this 
instinct,  it  is  roused  to  fury  by  the  thought  of  it. 
Any  act,  however  cruel  and  barbarous,  if  only  it 


228  Q-Boats 

tends  to  defeat  the  enemies  of  Germany,  is  a  good 
deed,  a  brave  act,  and  to  be  commended.  The 
German  general  who  lays  this  down  is  supported  by 
the  German  professor  who  adds:  "  The  spontaneous 
and  elementary  hatred  towards  England  is  rooted 
in  the  deepest  depths  of  our  own  being — there, 
where  considerations  of  reason  do  not  count,  where 
the  irrationcd,  the  instinct,  alone  dominates.  We 
hate  in  the  Enghsh  the  hostile  principle  of  our  inner- 
most and  highest  nature.  And  it  is  well  that  we  are 
fully  aware  of  this,  because  we  touch  therein  the 
vital  meaning  of  this  War."  Before  the  end  comes, 
the  barbarian  will  find  this  hostile  principle,  and 
will  hate  it,  in  the  French,  the  Italians,  the  Americans 
— in  the  whole  fellowship  of  nations  against  which 
he  is  fighting  with  savage  fury.  But,  to  our  satis- 
faction, he  has  singled  us  out  first;  for,  when  we 
hear  him,  we  too  are  conscious  of  a  spontaneous 
hatred  in  the  depths  of  our  being;  and  we  see  that 
in  this  we  do  "  touch  the  vital  meaning  of  this  War." 

{From  "  Submarine  and  Anti-Suhmarine,  1918.) 


Q-BOATS 

It  is  not  often  that  any  man,  or  any  ship's  company, 
can  repeat  their  best  performance  and  better  it;  yet 
Commander  Campbell's  third  victory  was  followed 
by  a  fourth,  of  which,  as  the  Admiral  on  his  station 
said  truly,  it  is  difficult  to  speak  in  sober  terms. 
Four  months  after  Q.  5  had  struggled  back  to  port, 


Q-Boats  229 

her  men  were  out  again  in  the  Pargust,  a  merchant 
vessel  on  the  same  Special  Service.  The  ship  was 
going  8  knots  in  heavy  rain  and  mist,  with  a  fresh 
southerly  breeze  and  a  choppy  sea.  Like  Q.  5,  she 
got  what  she  was  looking  for — what  others  run  fast 
and  far  to  avoid.  A  torpedo  was  seen  coming  towards 
her  on  the  starboard  beam.  It  was  apparently  fired 
at  very  close  range,  for  it  had  not  yet  settled  down 
to  its  depth,  but  jumped  out  of  the  water  when  only 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  ship.  This  time  there  was 
no  choice,  and  no  manoeuvring;  Pargust  received 
the  shot  in  the  engine-room  and  near  the  water-line. 
It  made  a  large  rent,  filled  the  boiler-room,  the 
engine-room  and  No.  5  hold  with  water,  killed  a 
stoker,  wounded  Engineer  Sub-Lieutenant  John 
Smith,  R.N.R.,  and  blew  the  starboard  lifeboat  into 
the  air,  landing  pieces  of  it  on  the  aerial. 

The  alarm  had  already  been  sounded  and  "  Aban- 
don ship"  ordered.  The  three  remaining  boats — 
one  lifeboat  and  two  dinghies — were  lowered,  full 
of  men,  the  ship's  helm  being  put  hard  a-starboard 
to  get  a  lee  for  them.  Lieutenant  F.  R.  Hereford, 
R.N.R.,  as  before,  went  in  charge  of  them  and  greatly 
distinguished  himself  by  the  coolness  and  propriety 
with  which  he  acted  the  part  of  Master  of  the  supposed 
merchantman. 

As  the  last  boat  was  pushing  off,  the  enemy's 
periscope  was  seen  for  the  first  time,  just  before  the 
port  beam,  and  about  400  yards  from  the  ship.  He 
turned  and  came  straight  on ;  but  ten  minutes  later, 
when  only  fifty  yards  from  the  ship  and  close  to  the 


230  Q-Boats 

stern  of  the  lifeboat,  he  submerged  completely  and 
disappeared.  His  periscope  was  sighted  again  a  few 
minutes  later,  directly  astern ;  he  then  steamed  to  the 
starboard  quarter,  turned  round  and  went  across  to 
the  port  beam,  turned  again  towards  the  ship  and 
hfeboat,  and  finally,  after  all  this  nosing  about, 
broke  surface  within  fifty  yards  or  less.  But  even 
now  he  was  extremely  cautious,  showing  only  his 
conning-tower  and  ends;  and  when  the  hfeboat 
pulled  away  round  the  ship's  stem  he  followed  close 
behind,  with  only  one  man  visible  on  top  of  the 
conning-tower,  shouting  directions  to  those  below. 

For  the  next  three  minutes  of  this  long  game  of 
patience,  the  strain  was  intense.  Commander  Camp- 
bell was  watching  the  man  on  the  conning-tower  care- 
fully, for  as  long  as  he  saw  him  perched  up  there  he 
knew  that  he  could  reserve  his  fire.  Lieutenant 
Hereford  was  waiting  till  he  was  certain  that  his 
captain  was  in  a  winning  position.  As  soon  as  that 
was  attained,  he  pulled  deliberately  towards  the 
ship.  This  annoyed  the  submarine,  whose  object 
was  evidently,  in  case  of  a  fight,  to  keep  the  boats 
as  much  as  possible  in  the  line  of  fire.  He  came 
right  up  to  the  surface  and  began  to  semaphore  to 
the  boats,  at  the  same  time  training  a  Maxim  on 
them. 

But  by  this  time  the  U-boat  was  only  one  point 
before  the  ship's  beam,  with  all  guns  bearing  on  him 
at  fifty  yards'  range — Commander  Campbell's  chance 
had  come.  He  opened  fire  with  a  shot  from  the 
4-inch  gun,  which  struck  the  base  of  the  conning- 


Q-Boats  231 

tower  and  also  removed  the  two  periscopes.  Hit  after 
hit  followed,  nearly  all  in  the  conning-tower,  which 
could  no  longer  be  closed.  The  submarine  took  a 
list  to  port,  and  several  men  rushed  up,  out  of  the 
hatch  abaft  the  conning-tower.  Then,  as  the  stem 
began  to  sink  and  oil  squirted  from  the  boat's  sides, 
the  rest  of  the  crew  came  out,  held  up  their  hands 
and  waved  in  token  of  surrender.  Commander 
Campbell,  of  course,  ordered  "cease  fire";  but  no 
sooner  had  the  order  been  obeyed,  than  the  pirate 
started  to  move  off  on  the  surface,  hoping,  though 
listing  to  port  and  down  by  the  stern,  and  in  honour 
bound  a  prisoner,  to  get  away  in  the  mist.  The 
Pargtist  could  not  follow,  so  that  she  was  obliged  to 
open  fire  again.  The  U-boat's  breach  of  faith  did  not 
save  her.  In  her  quick  rush,  she  got  to  about  300  yards 
from  her  captor,  whose  guns  continued  to  speak 
straight  to  her.  Then  a  shot  apparently  touched  off 
one  of  her  torpedoes — there  was  an  explosion  forward, 
and  she  fell  over  on  her  side.  For  a  moment  her  bow 
was  seen  jutting  up  sharply  out  of  the  water,  and  the 
next  she  was  gone. 

In  her  reckless  rush  to  escape  she  had  washed 
overboard  her  men  abaft  the  conning-tower ;  one  man 
went  down  clinging  to  her  bow,  and  some  who  came 
up  the  fore-hatch  were  left  struggling  in  the  thick  oil. 
The  boats  of  the  Pargtist  were  sent  to  the  rescue. 
They  had  a  hard  pull  to  windward  in  a  choppy  sea; 
but  they  managed  to  save  the  only  two  whom  they 
found  alive.  The  Pargust  lay  tossing  helplessly  for 
nearly  four  hours.    Then  H.M.S.  Crocus  arrived  and 


232  Q-Boats 

towed  her  into  port,  escorted  by  another  of  H.M.'s 
ships  and  the  U.S.S,  Gushing. 

"  It  is  difficult,"  says  Commander  Campbell, 
"where  all  did  well,  to  mention  individual  officers 
and  men,  as  any  one  officer  or  man  could  easily  have 
spoiled  the  show.  It  was  a  great  strain  for  those  on 
board  to  have  to  remain  entirely  concealed  for  thirty- 
five  minutes  after  the  ship  was  torpedoed — especially, 
for  instance,  the  foremost  gun's  crew,  who  had  to 
remain  flat  on  the  deck  without  moving  a  muscle." 
And  the  actual  combatants  were  not  the  only  heroes; 
for  he  adds:  "  The  men  in  the  boats,  especially  the 
lifeboat,  ran  a  great  risk  of  being  fired  on  by  me  if 
the  submarine  closed  them." 

It  is  difficult  for  a  grateful  country,  difficult  even 
for  the  most  generously  sympathetic  of  sovereigns, 
to  deal  adequately  with  a  ship's  company  like  this. 
Every  man  on  board  had  already  been  mentioned  or 
decorated,  most  of  them  more  than  once,  and  by  the 
very  names  of  their  successive  ships  they  were  already 
marked  out  for  lasting  honour.  Still,  for  our  sake 
rather  than  for  theirs,  we  may  be  glad  to  know  that 
what  tokens  could  be  given  them,  were  given.  First, 
Commander  Campbell  became  a  Captain,  and  others 
were  promoted  in  their  various  ranks.  Then  the 
memorable  thirteenth  clause  of  the  Statutes  of  the 
Victoria  Cross  was  put  into  operation.  By  this  it  is 
ordained  that  in  the  event  of  a  gallant  and  daring  act 
having  been  performed  by  a  ship's  company,  or  other 
body  of  men,  in  which  the  Admiral,  General,  or  other 
officer  commanding  such  forces  may  deem  that  all 


Q-Boats  233 

are  equally  brave  and  distinguished,  then  the  officer 
commanding  may  direct  that  one  officer  shall  be 
selected,  by  the  officers  engaged,  for  the  decoration; 
and  in  like  manner,  one  man  shall  be  selected  by 
the  seamen  or  private  soldiers,  for  the  decoration. 
Knowing  as  we  do  what  Captain  Campbell  felt  about 
his  officers  and  men,  we  can  imagine  something  of  his 
satisfaction  at  being  able  to  recommend  that  the 
V.C.  should  be  worn  on  behalf  of  the  whole  ship's 
company  by  Lieutenant  R.  N.  Stuart,  D.S.O.,  R.N.R., 
and  by  Seaman  William  Williams,  D.S.M.,  R.N.R. 
The  latter,  when  one  of  the  gun-ports  was  damaged 
by  the  shock  of  the  torpedo,  saved  it  from  falling 
down  and  exposing  the  whole  secret  of  the  ship,  by 
bearing  at  great  personal  risk  and  with  great  presence 
of  mind  the  whole  weight  of  the  port  until  assistance 
could  be  given  him.  The  former  was  the  Captain's  first 
lieutenant  and  second  self.  These  two  crosses,  and 
his  high  rank,  were  the  Captain's  own  reward ;  but  to 
mark  the  occasion,  a  bar  was  also  added  to  his  D.S.O. 
To  these  men  there  was  now  but  one  thing  wanting 
— ^to  show  their  greatness  in  adversity :  and  Fortune, 
that  could  deny  nothing  to  Gordon  Campbell,  gave 
him  this  too.  Less  than  two  months  after  the  Par- 
gust's  action  he  was  at  sea  in  the  Special  Service 
ship  Dunraven,  disguised  as  an  armed  British  mer- 
chant vessel,  and  zigzagging  at  eight  knots  in  rough 
water.  A  submarine  was  sighted  on  the  horizon  two 
points  before  the  starboard  beam  ;  but  the  zigzag 
course  was  maintained,  and  the  enemy  steered  to- 
wards the  ship,  submerging  about  twenty  minutes 


234  Q-Boats 

after  she  was  first  seen.  Twenty-six  minutes  later 
she  broke  surface  on  the  starboard  quarter  at  5000 
yards,  and  opened  fire.  Captain  Campbell  at  once 
ran  up  the  white  ensign,  returned  the  fire  with  his 
after-gun,  a  2 ^-pounder,  and  ordered  the  remainder 
of  the  crew  to  take  "  shell  cover."  He  also  gave 
directions  for  much  smoke  to  be  made,  but  at  the 
same  time  reduced  speed  to  seven  knots,  with  an 
occasional  zigzag,  to  give  the  U-boat  a  chance  of 
closing.  If  he  had  been  the  merchantman  he  seemed, 
he  could  in  all  probabiUty  have  escaped.  He  was 
steaming  head  to  sea,  and  the  submarine's  firing  was 
very  poor,  the  shots  nearly  all  passing  over. 

After  about  half  an  hour  the  enemy  ceased  firing 
and  came  on  at  full  speed.  A  quarter  of  an  hour 
later  he  turned  broadside  on,  and  reopened  fire.  The 
Dunraven's  gun  kept  firing  short,  intentionally,  and 
signals  were  made  en  clair  for  the  U-boat's  benefit, 
such  as  "  Submarine  chasing  and  shelling  me  " — 
"  Submarine  overtaking  me.  Help.  Come  quickly!  " 
— and  finally,  "  Am  abandoning  ship."  The  shells 
soon  began  to  fall  closer.  Captain  Campbell  made  a 
cloud  of  steam  to  indicate  boiler  trouble,  and  ordered 
"  Abandon  ship,"  at  the  same  time  stopping,  blowing 
off  steam,  and  turning  his  broadside  so  that  all  he 
did  should  be  visible.  To  add  to  the  appearance  of 
panic,  a  boat  was  let  go  by  the  foremost  fall  on  its 
side.  The  pirate  (thoroughly  confident  now)  closed, 
and  continued  his  shelling.  One  shell  went  through 
Dunraven's  poop,  exploding  a  depth-charge  and 
blowing  Lieutenant  Charles  Bonner,  D.S.C.,  R.N.R., 


Q-Boats  235 

out  of  his  control  station.  After  two  more  shells 
into  the  poop,  the  U-boat  ceased  fire  again  and 
closed.  He  was  "  coming  along  very  nicely  "  from 
port  to  starboard,  so  as  to  pass  four  or  five  hundred 
yards  away.  But  in  the  meantime,  the  poop  was  on 
fire.  Clouds  of  dense  black  smoke  were  issuing  from 
it  and  partially  hiding  the  submarine.  It  was  obvious 
to  Captain  Campbell  that  since  the  magazine  and 
depth-charges  were  in  the  poop,  an  explosion  must 
soon  take  place.  He  was  faced  with  the  choice  of 
opening  fire  through  the  smoke,  with  a  poor  chance 
of  success,  or  waiting  till  the  enemy  should  have  got 
on  to  the  weather  side.  He  decided  to  wait,  trusting 
his  men  as  faithfully  as  they  were  trusting  him. 

The  U-boat  came  on,  but  all  too  slowly.  She  was 
only  just  passing  across  Dunraven's  stern  when  the 
dreaded  explosion  took  place  in  the  poop.  The  4-inch 
gun  and  gun's  crew  complete  were  blown  into  the  air. 
The  gun  landed  forward  on  the  well-deck,  and  the 
crew  in  various  places — one  man  in  the  water.  This 
was  a  misfortune  that  might  well  have  broken  their 
captain's  heart — the  submarine  had  only  to  steam 
another  200  yards,  and  he  would  have  had  a  clear 
sight  and  three  guns  bearing  on  her  at  400  yards 
range.  Moreover  the  explosion  had  started  the 
"  Open  fire  "  buzzers  at  the  guns;  and  the  gun  on 
the  bridge,  which  was  the  only  one  then  bearing, 
had  duly  opened  fire.  The  U-boat  had  already 
started  to  submerge,  alarmed  by  the  explosion;  but 
it  was  thought  that  one  hit  was  obtained  on  the 
conning-tower  as  he  disappeared. 


236  Q-Boats 

Captain  Campbell's  heart  was  not  broken,  nor  was 
his  natural  force  abated.  Realising  that  a  torpedo 
would  probably  come  next,  he  ordered  the  doctor, 
Surgeon-Probationer  Alexander  Fowler,  D.S.C., 
R.N.V.R.,  to  remove  all  the  wounded  and  lock  them 
up  in  cabins  or  elsewhere,  so  as  not  to  risk  detection 
in  "  the  next  part."  He  then  turned  hoses  on  to  the 
flaming  poop,  where,  though  the  deck  was  red-hot, 
the  magazine  was  apparently  still  intact  and  danger- 
ous. At  the  same  time  he  remembered  that  a  man- 
of-war  had  answered  his  signal  for  assistance  when 
the  explosion  took  place;  and  being  determined  on 
trying  for  a  second  fight,  he  now  signalled  to  this 
ship  to  keep  away,  as  the  action  was  not  yet  ended. 
She  not  only  kept  away,  but  kept  the  ring,  by  deflect- 
ing traffic  while  these  invincibles  fought  the  pirate 
to  a  finish. 

The  torpedo  came  at  last,  from  a  point  about  1000 
yards  on  the  starboard  side,  and  it  struck  abaft  the 
engine-room.  Captain  Campbell  at  once  ordered  a 
second  "  Abandon  ship  "  or  "  Q  abandon  ship,"  as  he 
called  it;  for  by  it  he  was  professing  to  completely 
abandon  a  ship  whose  disguise  had  been  detected.  He 
left  his  guns  visible,  and  sent  a  second  party  of  men 
away  on  a  raft  and  a  damaged  boat.  The  poop  con- 
tinued to  burn  fiercely,  and  4-inch  shells  exploded 
every  few  minutes.  The  submarine  put  up  her  peri- 
scope and  circled  round  at  various  ranges,  viewing 
the  position  cautiously.  After  forty  minutes  she  broke 
surface  directly  astern,  where  no  gun  would  bear 
upon  her,  and  shelled  the  Dunraven  at  a  range  of 


Q-Boats  237 

a  few  hundred  yards.  Nearly  every  shot  was  a  hit, 
but  some  fell  near  the  boats.  Two  burst  on  the  bridge 
and  did  much  damage. 

In  another  twenty  minutes  the  enemy  ceased  firing 
and  again  submerged.  Captain  Campbell  had  now  no 
resource  left  but  his  torpedoes,  of  which  he  carried 
two — one  on  each  side.  He  fired  the  first  as  the  U-boat 
steamed  past  the  port  side  at  150  yards — too  short 
a  range  for  certainty  of  depth.  The  bubbles  passed 
just  ahead  of  the  periscope,  and  the  enemy  failed  to 
notice  it.  He  turned  very  sharply  round  the  ship's 
bow  and  came  slowly  down  the  starboard  side  at  three 
knots.  The  second  torpedo  was  then  fired,  but  the 
bubbles  passed  a  couple  of  feet  abaft  the  periscope. 
This  was  cruelly  hard  luck,  for  the  maximum  depth 
Wcis  on ;  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  this  torpedo,  like 
the  other,  must  have  leapt  over,  from  being  fired  at 
so  close  a  range. 

This  time  the  enemy  saw  his  danger,  and  instantly 
submerged.  Captain  Campbell  had  now  lost  his  last 
chance  of  a  kill,  and  was  bound  to  signal  urgently  for 
assistance.  He  did  so;  but  in  case  the  U-boat  re- 
appeared to  torpedo  or  shell  again,  he  arranged  for 
some  of  his  remaining  men  to  be  ready  to  jump  over- 
board in  a  final  panic,  leaving  still  himself  and  one 
gun's  crew  to  fight  a  forlorn  hope.  This  last  extremity 
was  not  reached.  The  U.S.S.  Noma  arrived  almost 
immediately  and  fired  at  a  periscope  a  few  hundred 
yards  astern  until  it  disappeared.  Then  came  two 
King's  ships,  the  Attack  and  Christaphcr.  Boats  were 
recalled,   the  fire  extinguished,  and  everything  on 


238  Q-Boats 

board  having  now  exploded,  arrangements  were  made 
for  towing.  For  twenty-four  hours  the  Christopher 
bore  her  burden  hke  a  saint.  Then  the  weather  began 
to  tell  upon  the  half-dead  ship,  and  sixty  of  her  crew 
and  her  wounded  were  transferred  to  the  trawler 
Foss.  The  next  night  the  sea  claimed  the  Dunraven 
in  unmistakable  tones.  The  Christopher  came  along- 
side and  brought  off  her  captain  and  the  rest  of  her 
crew;  and  when  she  rolled  end  up,  gave  her  a  gun- 
shot and  a  depth-charge,  to  take  her  to  her  last  berth. 
In  reporting  the  action.  Captain  Campbell  brought 
specially  to  notice  the  extreme  bravery  of  Lieutenant 
Bonner  and  the  4-inch  gun's  crew.  "  Lieutenant 
Bonner  having  been  blown  out  of  his  control  by  the 
first  explosion,  crawled  into  the  gun-hatch  with  the 
crew.  They  there  remained  at  their  posts  with  a  fire 
raging  in  the  poop  below,  and  the  deck  getting  red- 
hot.  One  man  tore  up  his  shirt  to  give  pieces  to  the 
gun's  crew,  to  stop  the  fumes  getting  into  their 
throats;  others  lifted  the  boxes  of  cordite  off  the 
deck  to  keep  it  from  exploding,  and  all  the  time 
they  knew  that  they  must  be  blown  up,  as  the  second- 
ary supply  and  magazine  were  immediately  below. 
They  told  me  afterwards  that  communication  with 
the  main  control  was  cut  off,  and  although  they 
knew  they  would  be  blown  up,  they  also  knew  that 
they  would  spoil  the  show  if  they  moved;  so  they 
remained  until  actually  blown  up  with  their  gun. 
Then  when,  as  wounded  men,  they  were  ordered  to 
remain  quiet  in  various  places  during  the  second 
action,  they  had  to  lie  there  unattended  and  bleeding. 


The  Drifters'   Battle  239 

with  explosions  continually  going  on  aboard,  and 
splinters  from  the  enemy's  shell-fire  penetrating 
their  quarters.  Lieutenant  Bonner,  himself  wounded, 
did  what  he  could  for  two  who  were  with  him  in  the 
ward-room.  When  I  visited  them  after  the  action, 
they  thought  little  of  their  wounds,  but  only  ex- 
pressed their  disgust  that  the  enemy  had  not  been 
sunk.    Surely  such  bravery  is  hard  to  equal." 

Hard  to  equal — harder  far  to  speak  about!  The 
King  said  all  that  can  be  said:  "  Greater  bravery 
than  was  shown  by  all  officers  and  men  on  this 
occasion  can  hardly  be  conceived."  And  again  he 
testified  the  same  by  symbols — among  them  a  second 
bar  for  Captain  Campbell,  V.C,  D.S.O.,  R.N.;  the 
Victoria  Cross  for  Lieutenant  C.  G.  Bonner,  D.S.C., 
R.N.R.  ;  and  another,  under  Article  13,  for  the 
4-inch  gun's  crew,  who  named  Ernest  Pitcher,  P.O.,  to 
wear  it  to  the  honour  of  them  all.  The  whole  ship's 
company  is  now  starred  like  a  constellation ;  but  the 
memory  of  their  service  will  long  outshine  their  stars. 
{From  "  Submarine  and  Anti-Submarine,"  1918.) 


THE  DRIFTERS'  BATTLE 

Our  fishermen  can  show  their  battles  too,  battles 
worthy  of  the  sea-dogs  who  kept  the  narrow  seas 
against  more  worthy  enemies.  In  the  Downs,  and 
in  the  first  twilight  of  a  November  morning,  three 
of  His  Majesty's  armed  drifters — Present  Help, 
Paramount  and  Majesty — were  beginning  their  daily 


240  The  Drifters'   Battle 

sweep,  when  Skipper  Thomas  Lane,  R.N.R.,  of  the 
Present  Help,  which  was  spare  ship  at  the  moment, 
sighted  an  object  one  mile  distant  to  the  eastward. 
As  day  was  breaking,  she  was  quickly  marked  for 
a  pirate  submarine — a  huge  one,  with  two  big 
guns  mounted  on  deck,  one  a  4-inch  and  one  a  22- 
pounder.  Nevertheless  Present  Help,  Paramount  and 
Majesty  opened  fire  at  once  with  their  6-pounders, 
not  standing  off,  but  closing  their  enemy,  and  con- 
tinuing to  close  her  under  heavy  fire  until  they  were 
hitting  her  with  their  own  light  guns.  Even  our 
history  can  hardly  show  a  grander  hne  of  battle 
than  those  three  tiny  ships  bearing  down  upon  their 
great  antagonist;  and  if  U.  48  did  not  fall  to  their 
fire,  it  is  none  the  less  true  that  her  surrender  was 
due  in  the  first  place  to  their  determined  onset. 

It  was  Paramount  who  took  and  gave  the  first 
knocks.  Her  searchhght  was  shot  away,  and  she 
in  reply  succeeded  in  putting  one  of  the  pirate's 
guns  out  of  action.  In  the  meantime — ^and  none 
too  soon — Present  Help  had  sent  up  the  red  rocket; 
it  was  seen  by  two  other  armed  drifters.  Accept- 
able and  Feasible,  who  were  less  than  two  miles  off, 
and  by  H.M.S.  Gipsy,  who  was  four  miles  away. 
Skipper  Lee,  of  the  Acceptable,  immediately  sang 
out  "Action,"  and  both  boats  blazed  away  at  3000 
yards'  range,  getting  in  at  least  one  hit  on  the 
enemy's  conning-tower.  At  the  same  moment  came 
the  sound  of  the  Gipsy's  12-pounder  as  she  rushed 
in  at  full  speed. 

The  U-boat  started  with  an  enormous,  and  appar- 


The   Drifters'   Battle  241 

ently  overwhelming,  advantage  of  gun  power.  She 
ought  to  have  been  a  match,  twice  over,  for  all  six 
of  our  little  ships.  But  she  was  on  dangerous  ground, 
and  the  astounding  resolution  of  the  attack  drove 
her  off  her  course.  In  ten  minutes  the  drifters  had 
actuaUy  pushed  her  ashore  on  the  Goodwin  Sands 
— Paramount  had  closed  to  thirty  yards!  Drake 
himself  was  hardly  nearer  to  the  galleons.  Then 
came  Gipsy,  equally  resolute.  Her  first  two  shots 
fell  short;  the  third  was  doubtful,  but  after  that 
she  got  on,  and  the  pirate's  bigger  remaining  gun 
was  no  match  for  her  12-pounder.  After  two  hits 
with  common  pointed  shell,  she  put  in  eight  out  of 
nine  lyddite,  smashed  the  enemy's  last  gun  and  set 
him  on  fire  forward.  Thereupon  the  pirate  crew 
surrendered  and  jumped  overboard. 

It  was  now  7.20  and  broad  dayhght.  Lieutenant- 
Commander  Frederick  Robinson,  of  the  Gipsy,  gave 
the  signal  to  cease  fire,  and  the  five  drifters  set  to 
work  to  save  their  drowning  enemies.  Paramount, 
who  was  nearest,  got  thirteen,  Feasible  one,  and 
Acceptable  two,  of  whom  one  was  badly  wounded. 
The  Gipsy's  whaler  was  got  away,  and  her  crew, 
under  Lieutenant  Gilbertson,  R.N.R.,  tried  for  an 
hour  to  make  headway  against  the  sea,  but  could 
not  go  further  than  half  a  mile,  the  tide  and  weather 
being  heavily  against  them.  They  brought  back  one 
dead  body,  and  one  prisoner  in  a  very  exhausted 
condition;  afterwards  they  went  off  again  and 
collected  the  prisoners  from  the  other  ships.  Then 
came   the   procession   back   to   port — a   quiet   and 


242  The   Kraken's   Death  Grapple 

unobtrusive  return,  but  as  glorious  as  any  that  the 
Goodwins  have  ever  seen.  Full  rewards  followed, 
and  the  due  decorations  for  Skippers  Thomas  Lane, 
Edward  Kemp  and  Richard  William  Barker,  But 
their  greatest  honour  was  already  their  own — they 
had  commanded,  in  victorious  action,  His  Majesty's 
Armed  Drifters,  Present  Help,  Paramount  and 
Majesty. 

(From  "  Suhnarine  and  Anti-Submarine,"  1918.) 


THE 

KRAKEN'S  DEATH  GRAPPLE 

In  such  a  case,  only  a  lucky  chance  could  bring 
the  duellists  together;  and  even  then  successful 
shooting  would  be  difiicult.  But  a  bold  submarine 
commander,  having  once  closed,  would  improvise  a 
new  form  of  attack  rather  than  let  a  pirate  go  his 
way.  E.  50  was  commanded  by  an  officer  of  this 
temper  when  she  sighted  an  enemy  'submarine, 
during  a  patrol  off  the  east  coast.  Both  boats  were 
submerged  at  the  time;  but  they  recognised  each 
other's  nationality  by  the  different  appearance  of 
their  periscopes.  The  German  had  two — thin  ones 
of  a  light-grey  colour,  and  with  an  arched  window 
at  the  top,  pecuhar  to  their  Service.  The  British 
commander  drove  straight  at  the  enemy  at  full 
speed,  and  reached  her  before  she  had  time  to  get 
down  to  a  depth  of  complete  invisibility.     E.  50 


The    Kraken's   Death   Grapple  243 

struck  fair  between  the  periscopes;  her  stem  cut 
through  the  plates  of  the  U-boat's  shell  and  re- 
mained embedded  in  her  back.  Then  came  a  terrific 
fight,  like  the  death  grapple  of  two  primeval  mon- 
sters. The  German's  only  chance,  in  his  wounded 
condition,  was  to  come  to  the  surface  before  he  was 
drowned  by  leakage  ;  he  blew  his  ballast-tanks  and 
struggled  almost  to  the  surface,  bringing  E.  50  up 
with  him.  The  English  boat  countered  by  flooding 
her  main  ballast  -  tanks,  and  weighing  her  enemy 
down  into  the  deep.  This  put  the  U-boat  to  the 
desperate  necessity  of  freeing  herself,  leak  or  no 
leak.  For  a  minute  and  a  half  she  drew  slowly  aft, 
bumping  E.  50's  sides  as  she  did  so;  then  her  effort 
seemed  to  cease,  and  her  periscopes  and  conning- 
towers  showed  on  E.  50's  quarter.  She  was  evi- 
dently filling  fast ;  she  had  a  list  to  starboard  and  was 
heavily  down  by  the  bows.  As  she  sank,  E.  50  took 
breath  and  looked  to  her  own  condition.  She  was 
apparently  uninjured,  but  she  had  negative  buoy- 
ancy and  her  forward  hydroplanes  were  jammed, 
so  that  it  was  a  matter  of  great  difficulty  to  get  her 
to  rise.  After  four  strenuous  minutes  she  was  brought 
to  the  surface,  and  traversed  the  position,  search- 
ing for  any  further  sign  of  the  U-boat  or  her  crew. 
But  nothing  was  seen  beyond  the  inevitable  lake 
of  oil,  pouring  up  like  the  thick  rank  life-blood  of 
the  dead  sea-monster. 

{From  "Submarine  and  Anti-Submarine,"  1918.) 


244  Songs   of  the   Fleet 

SONGS    OF    THE    FLEET 

(1912) 

I.— SAILING  AT  DAWN 

One  by  one  the  pale  stars  die  before  the  day  now, 
One  by  one  the  great  ships  are  stirring  from  their 
sleep, 
Cables  all  are  rumbling,  anchors  all  a-weigh  now. 
Now  the  fleet's  a  fleet  again,  gliding  towards  the 
deep. 

Now  the  fleet's  a  fleet  again,  hound  upon  the  old  ways. 
Splendour  of  the  past  comes  shining  in  the  spray  ; 

Admirals  0/  old  time,  bring  us  on  the  bold  ways  ! 
Souls  of  all  the  sea-dogs,  lead  the  line  to-day  ! 

Far  away  behind  us  town  and  tower  are  dwindling. 
Home  becomes  a  fair  dream  faded  long  ago  ; 

Infinitely  glorious  the  height  of  heaven  is  kindling. 
Infinitely  desolate  the  shoreless  sea  below. 

Now  the  fleet's  a  fleet  again,  bound  upon  the  old  ways. 
Splendour  of  the  past  comes  shining  in  the  spray  ; 

Admirals  of  old  time,  bring  us  on  the  bold  ways  I 
Souls  of  all  the  sea-dogs,  lead  the  line  to-day  I 

Once  again  with  proud  hearts  we  make  the  old  sur- 
render, 

Once  again  with  high  hearts  serve  the  age  to  be. 
Not  for  us  the  warm  hfe  of  Earth,  secure  and  tender. 

Ours  the  eternal  wandering  and  warfare  of  the  sea. 


Songs   of   the    Fleet  245 

Now  the  fleet's  a  fleet  again,  hound  upon  the  old  ways, 
Splendour  of  the  past  comes  shining  in  the  spray  ; 

Admirals  of  old  time,  bring  us  on  the  bold  ways  ! 
Souls  of  all  the  sea-dogs,  lead  the  line  to-day  ! 


II.— THE  MIDDLE  WATCH 

In  a  blue  dusk  the  ship  astern 

Uplifts  her  slender  spars, 
With  golden  lights  that  seem  to  bum 

Among  the  silver  stars. 
Like  fleets  along  a  cloudy  shore 

The  constellations  creep, 
Like  planets  on  the  ocean  floor 

Our  silent  course  we  keep. 

And  over  the  endless  plain. 
Out  of  the  night  forlorn 

Rises  a  faint  refrain, 

A  song  of  the  day  to  be  born — 

Watch,  oh  watch  till  ye  find  again 
Life  and  the  land  of  morn. 

From  a  dim  West  to  a  dark  East 

Our  lines  unwavering  head, 
As  if  their  motion  long  had  ceased 

And  Time  itself  were  dead. 
Vainly  we  watch  the  deep  below. 

Vainly  the  void  above, 
They  died  a  thousand  years  ago — 

Life  and  the  land  we  love. 


246  Songs   of  the   Fleet 

But  over  the  endless  plain, 

Out  of  the  night  forlorn 
Rises  a  faint  refrain, 

A  song  of  the  day  to  be  born — 
Watch,  oh  watch  till  ye  find  again 

Life  and  the  land  of  morn. 

III.— THE  LITTLE  ADMIRAL 

Stand  b}^  to  reckon  up  your  battleships — • 

Ten,  twenty,  thirty,  there  they  go. 
Brag  about  your  cruisers  hke  Leviathans — 

A  thousand  men  apiece  down  below. 
But  here's  just  one  little  Admiral, 

We're  all  of  us  his  brothers  and  his  sons, 
And  he's  worth,  O  he's  worth  at  the  very  least 

Double  all  your  tons  and  all  your  guns. 

Stand  by,  etc. 

See  them  on  the  forebridge  signaUing — 

A  score  of  men  a-hauling  hand  to  hand. 
And  the  whole  fleet  flying  like  the  wild  geese 

Moved  by  some  mysterious  command. 
Where's  the  mighty  will  that  shows  the  way  to  them, 

The  mind  that  sees  ahead  so  quick  and  clear? 
He's  there,  Sir,  walking  all  alone  there — 

The  little  man  whose  voice  you  never  hear. 

Stand  by,  etc. 

There  are  queer  things  that  only  come  to  sailor-men; 

They're  true,  but  they're  never  understood; 
And  I  know  one  thing  about  the  Admiral, 


Songs   of   the   Fleet  247 

That  I  can't  tell  rightly  as  I  should. 
I've  been  with  him  when  hope  sank  under  us — 

He  hardly  seemed  a  mortal  like  the  rest, 
I  could  swear  that  he  had  stars  upon  his  uniform. 

And  one  sleeve  pinned  across  his  breast. 

Stand  by,  etc. 

Some  day  we're  bound  to  sight  the  enemy. 

He's  coming,  tho'  he  hasn't  yet  a  name. 
Keel  to  keel  and  gun  to  gun  he'll  challenge  us 

To  meet  him  at  the  Great  Armada  game. 
None  knows  what  may  be  the  end  of  it, 

But  we'll  all  give  our  bodies  and  our  souls 
To  see  the  little  Admiral  a-playing  him 

A  rubber  of  the  old  Long  Bowls  I 

Stand  by,  etc. 


IV.— THE  SONG  OF  THE  GUNS  AT  SEA 

Oh  hear !    Oh  hear ! 

Across  the  sullen  tide. 

Across  the  echoing  dome  horizon-wide 

What  pulse  of  fear 

Beats  with  tremendous  boom  ? 

What  call  of  instant  doom. 

With  thunderstroke  of  terror  and  of  pride, 

With  urgency  that  may  not  be  denied. 

Reverberates  upon  the  heart's  own  drum 

Come!  .  .  .  Come!  .  .  .  for  thou  must  comet 


248  Songs   of  the   Fleet 

Come  forth,  O  Soul! 

This  is  thy  day  of  power. 

This  is  the  day  and  this  the  glorious  hour 

That  was  the  goal 

Of  thy  self-conquering  strife. 

The  love  of  child  and  wife, 

The  fields  of  Earth  and  the  wide  ways  of  Thought — 

Did  not  thy  purpose  count  them  all  as  nought 

That  in  this  moment  thou  thyself  mayst  give 

And  in  thy  country's  hfe  for  ever  Uve  ? 

Therefore  rejoice 

That  in  thy  passionate  prime 

Youth's  nobler  hope  disdained  the  spoils  of  Time 

And  thine  own  choice 

Fore-earned  for  thee  this  day. 

Rejoice!  rejoice  to  obey 

In  the  great  hour  of  life  that  men  call  Death 

The  beat  that  bids  thee  draw  heroic  breath, 

Deep-throbbing  till  thy  mortal  heart  be  dumb 

Come!  .  .  .  Come!  .  .  .  the  time  is  cornel 


v.— FAREWELL 

Mother,  with  unbowed  head 

Hear  thou  across  the  sea 
The  farewell  of  the  dead. 

The  dead  who  died  for  thee. 
Greet  them  again  with  tender  words  and  grave, 
For,  saving  thee,  themselves  they  could  not  save. 


War   and   Poetry  249 

To  keep  the  house  unharmed 

Their  fathers  built  so  fair, 
Deeming  endurance  armed 

Better  than  brute  despair, 
They  found  the  secret  of  the  word  that  saith, 
"  Service  is  sweet,  for  all  true  life  is  death." 

So  greet  thou  well  thy  dead 

Across  the  homeless  sea, 
And  be  thou  comforted 

Because  they  died  for  thee. 
Far  off  they  served,  but  now  their  deed  is  done 
For  evermore  their  life  and  thine  are  one. 


WAR    AND    POETRY 

No  one  need  be  surprised  if  it  should  appear  upon 
examination  that  the  greatest  battle  in  our  history 
has  not  produced  the  greatest  poem  in  our  language. 
The  common  belief  that  wars  are  the  prolific  seed  of 
literature  is  a  mistaken  one.  There  are  conspicuous 
instances  of  great  wars  preceding  or  accompanying 
wide  outbursts  of  literary  genius,  but  the  relation 
between  the  two  is  not  that  of  cause  and  effect  ; 
rather  they  have  both  sprung  from  the  same  stirring 
of  the  national  character,  which,  like  a  soil  new 
fertilised,  throws  up  a  quick  and  vigorous  crop  of 
various  kinds.  If  war  and  literature  chance  to  be 
two  of  these  simultaneous  growths,  war  will  in  all 
likelihood  be  found  to  choke  and  overshadow  litera- 
ture, rather  than  to  feed  or  support  it. 


250  War  and   Poetry 

But  has  not  war  been  from  the  beginning  one  of 
the  chief  subjects  of  poetry  ?  Certainly,  and  it  must  be 
so  to  the  end.  The  sword  will  always  be  among  the  first 
of  the  magical  symbols  that  work  upon  the  hearts  of 
mortal  men.  War  can  never  depart  altogether  from 
human  life,  of  whose  activities  and  tragedies  it  is 
the  copy  writ  large,  whether  in  noble  or  in  hideous 
characters.  But  it  is  not  so  clear  that  this  war  or  that 
can  be  the  immediate  subject  of  great  verse.  To  its 
own  generation  it  is  too  near,  too  intertwined  with 
glaring  realities  and  confused  with  disturbing  detail. 
The  emotions  of  the  fight,  the  sacrifice,  the  triumph, 
must  be  remembered  in  tranquillity — or  at  least  in 
peace — if  they  are  to  be  harmonised  into  anything 
deserving  of  the  name  and  the  immortality  of  music. 

Whether  these  principles  be  universally  true  or 
not,  they  are  strikingly  exemplified  by  the  poems  of 
Trafalgar.  A  national  war  for  life  and  death,  a 
national  outburst  of  the  highest  poetical  genius,  are 
to  be  seen  side  by  side  on  the  grandest  scale  as  the 
eighteenth  century  passes  into  the  nineteenth.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  the  one  gave  but  little  mater- 
ial to  the  other.  The  poetry  of  Wordsworth,  Shelley, 
Keats,  and  Byron  cannot  be  justly  described  as  war- 
like or  patriotic.  Poems  of  such  a  kind  there  are 
among  the  rest,  but  in  number  and  importance  they 
fall  infinitely  short  of  the  proportion  which  the  events 
and  thoughts  of  war  bore  to  the  life  of  the  time.  Even 
Campbell,  whose  volume,  published  in  1809,  con- 
tained "  Hohenlinden,"  "  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic," 
and  "  Ye  Mariners  of  England,"  made  nothing  of 


The    War   Films  251 

a  subject  far  more  rich  in  emotion  and  in  visible 
beauty  than  any  of  these;  and  Wordsworth,  though 
he  wrote  an  incomparable  poem  on  Nelson's  char- 
acter, had  not  the  dramatic  power  to  handle  the 
supreme  tragedy  of  his  life  and  death.  It  was  not 
until  1904,  a  century  after  the  battle,  that  a  drama- 
tic setting  of  this  theme  appeared  from  the  hand  of 
an  Englishman  of  genius;  and  even  then  Trafalgar 
was  treated  by  Thomas  Hardy  from  a  professedly 
impersonal  point  of  view,  and  as  an  episode  in  one 
part  of  a  titanic  spectacle.  It  is  true,  and  most  for- 
tunate for  us,  that  the  subject  here  dominated  the 
master  of  the  show.  The  episode  glowed  back  upon 
the  hand  that  painted  it,  revealing  lines  of  virile 
beauty  and  a  rhythmic  power  which  moves  to  such 
a  sombre  march  as  "  The  Night  of  Trafalgar," 

From  Wordsworth,  then,  from  Scott,  Rossetti,  Hardy, 
and  one  or  two  others,  we  get  the  after-thought  of 
a  great  nation  upon  a  breathless  moment  in  its  life. 

{From  "  The  Year  0/  Trafalgar,"  1905.) 


THE    WAR    FILMS 

0  LIVING  pictures  of  the  dead, 
O  songs  without  a  sound, 

O  fellowship  whose  phantom  tread 
Hallows  a  phantom  ground — 

How  in  a  gleam  have  these  revealed 
The  faith  we  had  not  found. 


252  Unlimited   War 

We  have  sought  God  in  a  cloudy  Heaven, 
We  have  passed  by  God  on  earth : 

His  seven  sins  and  his  sorrows  seven. 
His  wayworn  mood  and  mirth, 

Like  a  ragged  cloak  have  hid  from  us 
The  secret  of  his  birth. 

Brother  of  men,  when  now  I  see 

The  lads  go  forth  in  line, 
Thou  knowest  my  heart  is  hungry  in  me 

As  for  thy  bread  and  wine: 
Thou  knowest  my  heart  is  bowed  in  me 

To  take  their  death  for  mine. 

UNLIMITED    WAR 

When  I  was  your  age,  I  loved  no  stories  so  well  as 
stories  of  war.  Why  then  do  I  give  them  up  ?  Be- 
cause, though  I  have  not  changed,  war  has  changed, 
It  still  shows  the  finest  qualities  of  men — it  shows 
them  leaving  everything  they  love  best  in  the  world, 
facing  dangers  and  enduring  hardships,  matching 
their  courage  and  skill  against  those  of  the  other 
side,  overcoming  difficulties  by  land  and  sea,  and  all 
this  for  an  idea,  the  love  of  their  country  and  that 
for  which  their  country  is  fighting,  the  honour  and 
welfare  of  mankind.  But  unfortunately  this  is  not 
aU  that  war  does:  it  also  shows  men  at  their  worst. 
I  am  not  now  speaking  of  the  unheard-of  barbarities 
committed  by  one  side  in  the  late  war :  I  am  speaking 
of  certain  things  done  by  both  sides,  and  quite  fair 
according  to  the  rules  of  war,  in  fact  unavoidable  if 


Unlimited   War  253 

you  are  to  fight  at  all  under  modern  conditions :  mil- 
lions of  men  killed  or  mutilated,  millions  of  homes 
made  desolate,  houses  and  churches,  roads  and 
bridges,  orchards,  pastures,  and  ploughlands  turned 
to  mud  and  dustheaps — in  a  word,  the  life  of  the 
world  made  hideous  for  years,  with  the  survivors 
glaring  at  each  other  across  the  ruins. 

This,  as  you  know,  was  not  always  so :  nations  used 
to  fight  by  teams,  as  schools  do — a  small  picked  army 
on  this  side  against  a  small  picked  army  on  that. 
Even  then  they  did  a  lot  of  damage  and  caused  a  lot 
of  misery;  but  the  case  is  a  thousand  times  worse 
now.  Now  the  whole  population  of  each  country 
goes  to  war,  the  whole  world  is  involved,  and  the 
nations  fight  desperately  because  they  fight  for  their 
existence — world-power  or  downfall — ^and  they  feel 
that  they  must  hack  their  way  through  and  stick 
at  nothing  to  save  themselves.  Do  you  think  that 
this  kind  of  fighting  can  go  on?  One  such  war  has 
brought  the  world  to  the  brink  of  ruin  and  starvation : 
what  would  another  leave  us?  Can  you  imagine 
what  would  become  of  your  school  life  if  in  a  football 
match  the  whole  of  both  schools  played  in  one  big 
scrimmage,  and  a  hundred  boys  were  killed  on  each 
side  and  a  hundred  injured  for  life,  and  both  sides 
always  joined  in  burning  down  the  buildings  of  the 
school  on  whose  ground  the  game  was  played?  But 
that  would  be  very  much  less  cruel  and  absurd  than 
modem  war. 

War  then  must  stop,  and  you  will,  I  hope,  have  no 
more  stories  of  new  wars.    But  you  may  have  good 


254  Unlimited   War 

stories  for  all  that — stories  of  the  same  races  showing 
the  same  fine  qualities,  setting  the  same  endurance 
and  courage  and  skill  against  difficulties  and  dangers, 
upholding  the  honour  of  their  country  too,  and 
furthering  the  welfare  of  all  mankind  instead  of 
saving  part  at  the  expense  of  the  rest. 

I  daresay  you  will  not  agree  to  this  right  off:  you 
know  what  you  want  in  a  story,  you  have  always  got 
it  in  stories  of  war,  and  you  can  hardly  believe  you 
will  find  it  anywhere  else.  Well,  let  us  consider  what 
it  is  that  you,  and  I,  have  always  wanted  and  found 
in  stories  of  war.  Is  it  an  account  of  the  wounds  and 
miseries  our  side  have  inflicted  on  the  other  side,  or 
of  the  sufferings  of  non-combatants  or  our  own  people 
at  home?  No,  in  our  stories  we  have  always  had  to 
leave  out  that  kind  of  detail:  we  wanted  to  forget 
the  cruel  and  wasteful  part,  and  think  only  of  three 
things — ^first  the  contest,  the  struggle  against  odds 
and  obstacles,  second  the  moments  of  special  daring 
or  success,  and  third  and  best  of  all,  the  men  who  were 
the  heroes  of  these  struggles  and  great  moments. 
What  did  they  do,  what  were  they  like,  how  did  they 
feel,  how  did  they  come  to  be  what  they  were,  great 
men  for  their  country,  loved  and  honoured  in  their 
own  generation  and  famous  for  long  afterwards  ? 

Now  if  these  are  really,  as  I  beUeve  they  are,  the 
points  we  looked  for  in  our  war  stories,  we  can  have 
them  in  plenty  without  going  to  the  wars  for  them. 
You  will  find  them  all  in  the  lives  of  our  great  ex- 
plorers: the  right  stuff  is  there,  the  stuff  that  we 
all  want  and  can  never  do  without.    Where  will  you 


Unlimited   War  255 

look  for  finer  men  than  these,  or  for  more  honourable 
enterprises  than  those  they  undertook,  or  greater 
dangers  and  sufferings  than  theirs,  or  moments  more 
full  of  daring  and  excitement?  Every  one  of  them 
was  in  truth  an  army  commander,  though  the  army 
was  only  a  handful  of  men  and  was  never  out  to  kill. 
What  territories  they  invaded,  these  explorers,  what 
campaigns  they  made,  what  forced  marches,  what 
flanking  movements :  how  they  managed  their  trans- 
port and  commissariat,  what  risks  they  took,  what 
casualties  they  suffered,  how  they  supported  each 
other,  and,  when  disaster  came,  what  lonely  and 
undefeated  deaths  they  died!  If  any  men  were  ever 
worth  your  knowing,  these  are  they :  and  if  you  once 
get  to  know  them  intimately  in  their  own  records, 
you  will  have  men  to  remember  and  admire  all  your 
life :  and  no  possession  can  be  greater  than  that. 

There  is  one  more  point.  Travel  and  exploration 
are  not  only  as  interesting  as  war  in  the  ways  I  have 
mentioned :  they  have  also  another  set  of  characters 
and  experiences  which  are  entirely  their  own.  The 
explorer  often  has  enemies,  but  he  cannot  simply 
shoot  them  down — he  must  conciliate  or  outwit  them 
without  fighting.  This  is  more  dangerous,  and  more 
exciting — think  of  Burton,  disguised  for  months  and 
in  danger  of  his  life  every  hour  of  every  day:  or 
of  Younghusband  riding  unarmed  into  the  Tibetan 
camp,  and  again  through  the  streets  of  the  Forbidden 
City,  swarming  with  fierce  and  hostile  monks.  Then 
there  is  often  sheer  starvation  to  be  faced:  hunting 
to  be  done  not  for  sport  or  exercise,  but  for  the  next 


256    ■  Unlimited  War 

meal:  friends  to  be  backed  or  rescued  at  all  costs: 
natives  to  be  traded  with,  trusted,  or  guarded  against. 
Perhaps,  in  the  true  explorer's  story,  the  natives  are 
even  more  interesting  than  the  countries  they  live  in. 
Some  of  them  belong  to  the  ancient  races  of  the 
East,  and  can  only  be  understood  by  a  Young- 
husband  or  a  Burton:  others  are  just  wild  children — 
Burke  and  Wills,  Livingstone  and  Stanley  all  knew 
how  to  get  the  best  out  of  these:  others  again  hve 
an  ordered  but  very  primitive  kind  of  life,  Uke  the 
Red  Indians  who  were  so  good  to  Franklin,  the 
men  of  the  Stone  Age  whom  Wollaston  describes. 
Some  among  them  even  have  names,  and  stand  out 
as  curious  and  delightful  people.  Who  would  not 
wish  to  have  known  Akaitcho  and  Augustus,  Liusan 
and  Wali,  the  Tongsa  Penlop  and  the  Ti  Rimpoche? 
Who  would  not  long  for  such  days  of  romance  as  that 
on  which  Wollaston  and  his  companions  at  last  found 
their  way  through  the  forest  labyrinth  and  stood  in 
the  pygmy  village:  or  that  on  which  the  boy  of 
twenty-four  started  alone  across  the  vast  Mongolian 
plain  in  the  first  freshness  of  an  April  morning? 
Perhaps  the  start  is  the  best  part  of  a  journey: 
it  is  fine  to  reach  your  goal,  and  to  come  home  in 
triumph;  but  finest,  I  suspect,  to  be  just  going  across 
the  threshold.  "  How  much  better,"  as  Scott  said 
at  the  end,  "  than  lounging  in  too  great  comfort  at 
home!" 

{From  "The  Book  of  the  Long  Trail,"  1919.) 

PRINTED  IN  ENGLAND  BY  J.  B.  PEACE,  M.A. 
AT    THE    CAMBRIDGE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS 


DATE  DUE 

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CAYLORO 

PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 

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